


the lone traveller anthology

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [29]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Grand Northern Conspiracy 2.0, I had to cut down the tags because it was getting ridiculous, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon's Targaryen name is Aemon, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, R Plus L Equals J, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Robb Lives, Robb Stark is a Gift, Sansa the Puppet Master, Sansa-centric, Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, United North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-04-16 23:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 103
Words: 211,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Sansa must find a way to marry a decent man before Robert Baratheon comes North, prevent Jon from taking the Black, and tie Theon to House Stark, all while knowing her father must yet confront the wrathful Lannisters. Sansa refuses to be a bystander to tragedy any longer, but can she ever hope to win the game of thrones? Can she unite all the living North to fight for her family and humanity, despite their entrenched rivalries and pride?:::::::::::PLEASE NOTE: This is not one single fic. This is selected works from my 'the lone traveller' multiverse, slotted together into one narrative. Featuring all Primary Universe, and some Secondary Universe TLT fics, in chronological order. And exclusive bonus scenes from a whole host of new POVs! Main POVs are: Sansa, Ramsay & Robb. Feel free to request different character POVs!The collected Tertiary TLT Universe fics can befound here.::::::::::Complete for now, a few more (mostly Sansa and Robb) chapters to come later. You can still ask for other POVs too! :D





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the lone traveller, standing strong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354225) by [bubblewrapstargirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl). 



>   
>    
> 
> 
> A time-travelling Sansa directs her own game of thrones, encouraging Robb to secede from the Seven Kingdoms far earlier, and gaining a crown of her own. Always remembering the threat from the far North which looms ever closer. Meanwhile, all her meddling means a whole range of family issues uproot the routines and traditions of the Dreadfort.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown._   
> 
> 
> -H.P. Lovecraft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancast for additional/ASOIAF only characters [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595529).
> 
> Maps, family trees etc [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615728).

THE CELESTIAL TRAVELLER

He woke with dirt beneath his fingertips, the familiar scent of damp soil, wet earth from morning dew. The sun was blinding when he opened his one eye, but pale and low, like in winter. He’d woken up outside before, many times over the years in fact, but not for months. Confusion was his first emotion, when he opened his eye and saw the gigantic white tree reaching into the heavens above him. The leaves were red like congealing blood, the bark white, like exposed bone; he had seen enough skeletons to know. With that thought came clarity. He remembered who he was, and all the horror he had seen.

Like a jolt of pain, he recalled he was dying. Automatically, he looked down to see the wound on his stomach, the reason for his imminent demise. To his great surprise he felt no pain. He found his shirt was blood and sweat free, his hand as he scrabbled to lift it suspiciously clean. There was a clean bandage where it should have been, but no wound; his skin smooth and flawless where it should be bloody and gaping.

Out of curiosity, his hand drifted to where the scar should be, where he’d taken a bullet to the chest as a child. To his relief, the familiar puckered skin was there, the lumpy little reminder of when he’d laid in bed for weeks, in and out of a coma as he healed. Dropping his shirt, he sat up properly, taking in the unfamiliar landscape. He was on some kind of rocky hillside; mostly bare stone, but dappled with green by pockets of grass. The highest peaks bore snow, but thankfully he wasn’t lying in it.

He rose to his feet for a better look. Beyond the mountains, there was nothing for miles. No sign of a town or settlement anywhere, not even a ruin. Just miles of open countryside, stretching out as far as his eye could reach. He blinked at the unfamiliar landscape, his right eyelashes irritated by the bandage over one half of his face. For a moment, he was frozen in shock, heart thumping wildly, before he reached up to press his fingertips tentatively at the right side of his face. Breathless with hope, considering the non-existent wound on his stomach, he carefully unpeeled the bandage. He was momentarily blinded by light streaming into the eye that shouldn’t be there, his vision blurring as he saw double for a minute, before his brain readjusted to being able to input two separate streams of visual data.

Laughing in surprise, he felt the tears drip down his face. He knew then what this was. He was dead, and this beautiful, empty landscape was his afterlife. It was like no depiction of heaven or hell that he had ever seen, but then there were lots of religions and gods in the world, and he didn’t know them all. He wondered if this was proof of the divine, or just the universe sending his soul or energy into another plane of existance. From the lack of heavenly beings there to greet him, he guessed that no answers would be forthcoming any time soon.

For a lack of anything better to do, he began to pick his way down the mountainside; the tree was on a flat hilltop, with a worn-in path cutting down through the stone toward the ground. He was startled again when he turned to study the tree, in case he needed to find his way back to it, and saw that it was decorated with a huge, ugly carving of a grimacing face. Three thin streams of red sap dripped down from the frowning eyes like tears, adding to the air of menace around it. Appalled by the image, he crept closer, to study it in detail. It was hand-carved of that there was no doubt, and possibly the most hideous artwork he had ever seen. And he had seen ‘artful’ displays of the dead by some fucked up people they had kept a wide birth from, back when he was alive. Somehow, this menacing tree was worse, huge gaping maw open in a silent groan. He backed away swiftly, having taken his fill, and returned to the path leading downward. A path meant people, or so he hoped, and there was no reason to suspect he was in danger from them just yet. He would be careful though, in his approach, if he did find any houses. He would have to find somewhere to hide and observe before making any kind of contact.

His plan was throughly ruined, when he rounded a bend in the path, a section close to the face of a mountain, carefully picking his way past the loose rocks, holding onto the the cliff-face, only to find three men at the other side of the face, advancing upward. They were like warriors from a storybook, or else a particularly dedicated costume drama, with elaborate clothing in the form of roughly-sewn fur cloaks and hand-woven shirts and trousers. At least they weren’t in loin-cloths, he mused, though the shock would be the same if they were.

A renaissance fair in the afterlife seemed a bit of a strech, but he recalled a nordic afterlife he’d been told about, where warriors went when they died; Valhalla. Maybe that’s where he’d ended up, as the modern day equivalent, and these men were his guides? The theory didn’t hold up for long, as the men were clearly surprised to see him, and one drew a huge sword from his belt in response to his gaping face watching them from above.

He was too close to them to attempt an escape, which would be dangerous on the thin path, edged as it was with one long drop into a jagged crevasse. He didn’t like to risk the pain, despite his belief in his own dead state. If he were wrong it would be a horrible end. So he did the sensible thing and lifted this hands in the air, the universal sign of surrender, and prayed it would work.

The men approached him warily, the man with the sword barking out an order that was short and clipped in a language he did not recognise. He felt himself flush at his stupidity. For a moment he’d expected him to speak in English. When a confused look only garnered more angry words and a threating brandish of the sword, he figured some words in the wrong language would be better than none.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand...” He began, his voice even and his body untrembling. He’d been in far too many scarier situations than this to cower at the sight of a sword. At least these men weren’t throwing him facedown on the ground and pulling down his jeans-

He shook off the awful memory, focusing on the problem at hand.

“Who are you?” The man with the sword said, switching to English, though his accent was entirely unfamiliar. It was probably the most suprising thing of the whole strange day.

“Carl.” said Carl, gradually lowering his hands to his side.

“Where are your clansmen, Wull?” A smaller man asked. His long greasy black hair almost covered his entire face.

“Wull?” Carl repeated, confusion evident in his tone, “I don’t-”

“What is your clan name?” The man with the sword barked. He was extremely tall, with a rotund belly and arms like tree trunks. He could flatten Carl with one blow, he didn’t need a sword to do his threatening.

“Uh- Grimes.” replied Carl, taking a wild stab that a surname was what they were after. It seemed he was correct, as the men looked between one another in interest, as if to see if the others recognised the name.

“Never met no Grimes man before. Who’s the Grimes?” The man asked.

Carl looked between the three suspicious faces, bewildered. He didn’t understand the question, or how to answer it in a way that wouldn’t get him killed.

“My family is from the South.” He tried, since lies were better if they were partly true, and he was from the South; just not the South of wherever this was.

Evidently, it was the wrong thing to say.

“The South!” roared the swordsman, “You very lost, Southron cunt! You a Riverlands man, eh?”

“No clans in Riverlands.” Countered the greasy-haired man. “Only in Vale and North.”

“True.” Grunted the swordsman, “Vale then, Southron cunt?”

“Er-” said Carl. “If I say yes will you kill me?”

For a moment, there was a long silence, before the swordsman began to laugh, his big belly wobbling as he moved. He sheathed his sword, and reached up to grab Carl by the shoulder, dragging him forward until he was surrounded by the unwashed warriors.

“We take you to the Flint. The Flint will know what to do with Grimes hill-man from the Vale, sneaking onto First Flint land.”

“I didn’t mean to tresspass on your land. I was only here to see the tree.” said Carl, since he had indeed come down from the tree, and there had been no other paths around it. Clearly these men had come to see it too.

“You worship old gods at the heart tree?” asked the swordsman, looking vaguely impressed. “You maybe not such a cunt, Vale man.”

It didn’t stop the men from biding his hands with rope, though the didn’t truss up his legs and carry him, desipte being big and burly enough to do so. Still, Carl figured the old gods were a point in his favour, and resolved to remember to lie about that again, when they reached “the Flint”, whoever that might be.


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I have become a stranger in a strange land._  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  -Exodus 2:22

THE LONE TRAVELLER

It takes several days before Sansa can bring herself to believe it. To understand that she is not dreaming; not yet dead. Against the odds, her mind has not broken from the strain of all that she has endured. No, Sansa is a child again. In a girl’s body, returned to Winterfell as it was. Long before King Robert came, and forged the first link in the chain that ripped her world apart.

They tell her she has been confined to her room, burning with a fever. Maester Luwin was extremely concerned. When the fire under her skin finally cools, she allows her parents to take her into their arms, and weeps at the feel of their sweet embrace. She had forgotten the scent of Mother's hair, the rough callouses on Father's gentle hands. It is so lovely to see them all again; Robb, her brave brother so noble and honest, sullen Jon who carefully graces her with a rare smile, grumpy Arya, who tells her she is stupid for staying out in the snow and getting sick. Sweet Bran, the cheerful boy running recklessly through the halls, so different from the solemn Three-Eyed Raven. Rickon, the babe she barely knew, beautifully loud and unafraid. Even Theon, with his sly smiles and confident swagger, brash and quick-witted, so rich in spirit compared to the hollow creature he became.

 _I won’t let it happen again,_ she vows, to every god she knows. _I will save you all, and destroy all who attempt to stop me._

*

She spends a lot of time, those first few nights of restoration, trying to understand how a foolish, unflowered girl could influence anyone, enough to prevent the tragedies to come. Her lord father did not believe in omens, magic or visions. If she tried to convince him of what was to befall their House, he would think her mad. If she had an ally, someone else who had lived all that is to come, mayhaps her trial would be easier to endure. But as far, no one seems to recall having lived out these days before.

Cersei Lannister had called Sansa _little dove_ with that sick smile on her face, because the Sansa she knew was as defenceless as one. Cersei would never have allowed fat King Robert to betroth her precious lion to a wild wolf, like Arya. Sansa could never feign to be so unladylike, no one would ever believe it. Sansa is not built to carry arms. But she is not completely incapable of change, she knows this. In this second life, the gods have granted her the chance to become something new. A she-wolf, cloaked in a lady’s garb. No, she will not be betrothed to any Southern man in this life, at any cost.

Before any of her hopes can come to pass, Sansa must first learn to be a player in the great game. A woman’s weapon need not be tears, but it need not be only her woman’s place either. Mother would be horrified to see Sansa with any weapon in her soft hands. Catelyn Stark detested war and weaponry. She scorned it as a man’s excuse to abandon his family and the duties of home. Sansa understood now that it was fear, of the outcome of war, which worried her mother so. But commanding her daughter to stay out of the training yard would not protect Arya from all the men who would attempt to harm her. Father and brothers and guards could not be relied upon for protection. No one can protect anyone, save themselves.

Mother would mayhaps faint, if Sansa ever asked to join the boys, as they sparred under Rodrick Cassel’s careful eye. So Sansa simply does not ask.

First, she must pick her weapon. Sansa sits at among her family, at the feast to celebrate her miraculous return to good health, and eyes the swords she sees strapped to her lord father's guards. No, she is not built for such a heavy, obvious weapon. Arya was the swords-woman of the family, and rightly so. Sansa will never forget the display of skill she watched with Petyr Baelish by her side, as Arya danced through her spar with Brienne. Mayhaps in the new world Sansa will create, Arya will never need to progress to such a level. But she still deserves to learn, and Sansa is loath to overshadow her sister’s passion with her own sure-to-be clumsy attempt. She firmly resolves never to learn more than the basics of swordplay. Daggers were more easily concealed, anyway.

She will never forget the furious fear in Joffrey’s eyes when Tyrion stabbed a table, and threated to cut off his cock, after the monstrous King attempted to call for a bedding. Sansa has no love for any Lannister, but she cannot deny Tyrion was kind to her. Still, in future she would prefer to be the one that holds the dagger; not beholden to any man to provide it for her.

Yet, it is not enough. The dagger is a close-range weapon. Sansa is not yet a killer. But if she is to become brave enough to be a player in the game of thrones, she may have need to become one. How much easier it would be, to fell her enemy at fifty paces, rather than five? This is why she chooses the bow. It has dual qualities; if Sansa is ever lost in the wilds again, a bow may keep her fed, the way a sword would not. If she could hunt for herself, Sansa may never go hungry again. What a wonderful life that would be.

No one can learn a new skill without a teacher. Jon might help her, now that she no longer turns her nose at him, nor reminds him of his supposed birth. But she has only been restored in this life but half a moon; no one will believe her new, kinder self is indicative of her future behaviour until she has proven herself over the years. She cannot afford to wait that long. The master-at-arms would never teach her without her lord father’s consent, nor would any other man sworn to her father’s service. Robb’s honour would not allow him to assist her in secret either, as he would feel duty-bound to tell their parents of her request.

It is just as well then, that Theon Greyjoy is the greatest archer Sansa has ever known. 

*

The only one who ever rivalled Theon in skill, that Sansa ever looked upon with her own eyes, was Ramsay Bolton. Remembering Rickon, fleeing like a frightened doe, felled by a single arrow skewered through his back, makes her sick to her stomach. She stares at the venison on her plate, colour rapidly draining from her face. So intent is her stare, that Sansa misses her mother’s insistent questioning after her health, until Arya punches her in the arm. Her little sister, so full of energy and ire. Here, she is still the wild wolf, not tempered by all the hardship she suffered, in the world Sansa will not allow to come to pass.

 “Forgive me, Mother,” Sansa demurely whispers, “I am well, only a little tired.”

Mother does not look convinced, but Sansa’s smile is disarming enough to mollify her. She does not notice how Sansa carefully avoids eating the meat on her plate.

Sansa eyes the kraken among wolves, who is still more boy than man here. Theon, with his lazy smile and arrogant assurance, dressed in finery, as though the world were his to command. She is surprised by how much she approves of him this way, in comparison to the tortured wretch she saw him reduced to. This is the man that sacked her home and put her little brothers out into the cold. A part of her will always hate him for that. But it is difficult to see that oathbreaker, in the young man seated down the table from her, japing with Robb.

Jon reminded Sansa once, when he spoke of his time at Dragonstone, that Theon had been a prisoner in their home. No matter how well he was treated. Theon lived under the threat of execution, every day that Sansa's father lived. It had been a shock for her, to equate Theon’s childhood in Winterfell, to that of her own imprisonment in King’s Landing. Theon was beholden to his father’s good behaviour. Much as she had been beholden to Robb’s military decisions, and she was beaten viciously by the Kingsguard for each one of her brother’s victories. Theon may not be publicly beaten, but she has no doubt he knows her lord father will not fail to do his duty. Should Lord Balon rebel, Theon will pay with his life. Theon is not her father’s ward, nor her brother. He is a hostage.

How could she ever hope to secure his loyalty? She knows Theon loves Robb, truly and honestly. But he betrayed him, nethertheless. She now understands Balon will never give up reaving ways, if he senses an opportunity to seize power. If Westeros erupts into war, and Balon rebels, Theon’s life will be forfeit. That, she cannot allow. She owes him her life. Sansa would never have escaped the Boltons without him. Would never have reunited with Jon, whom she had believed to be her only living kin.

Regardless of the disgust she still feels, knowing Theon to be a child-slayer, he must be protected. Those horrid events have not yet come to pass. And yet, she cannot deny that she still feels indebted to him, for aiding her escape. She will do everything she can to ensure she is never sent South, and that the Bolton's sick practices are exposed. But similarly, she must ensure Theon is never sent back to the Iron Islands. Balon and Yara will never accept him. Though Theon may reject the title, she would name him for a Stark, and keep him beside Robb. Starks do not do well outside the North, and she cares nought for the opinion of others in this. She will make it so, despite the considerable obstacles in her path.

She cannot hate Theon here, she realises, as she watches him tease Robb and roll his eyes at something Jon mutters. Quite separate from her own views, she is sure Robb would never permit Theon’s execution for Balon’s crimes. And if Robb stood against their lord father, the results could be disastrous. Robb loves Theon as an elder brother. He oft looks to him for advice. Sansa learnt that he followed Theon’s counsel, in the early stages of the War of the Five Kings. She knows that losing Theon for Balon’s treachery is something Robb would not abide. Jon has taught her not to punish a son for his father’s sins, but Sansa knows her own father would never agree to such sentiment. Always, Lord Eddard Stark was a man of honour and steadfast duty. And Houses have been destroyed over far less than a son standing against his father. It is an issue she knows must be rectified, before the Lannister's cuckolding of Robert Baratheon is revealed.

The boys are too far away for Sansa to listen their conversation this night. Every so often, her lady mother glares in their direction. As a former Tully of the Riverlands, Lady Catelyn could never hold any love for the Ironborn. Too much blood was shed between their lands. Nor could she love her husband’s nephew, proclaimed to be his natural son. Sansa knows her mother despises Jon's presence, and mistrusts Theon greatly. Her lady mother's prejudice has resulted in much folly, and Sansa knows not how to begin to alter her staunch beliefs.

Sansa bites her lip, knowing she cannot afford to be caught staring at her father’s 'ward'. Nor can she reveal Jon’s parentage at this time. If she tells Jon, he will demand proof she does not have. If he asks Father, Lord Stark may feel compelled to send him away, to ‘protect him’. No, the knowledge is too dangerous, while Robert Baratheon lives, and commands her father’s respect. However, Jon will never go to the Wall, if Sansa can prevent it. She doesn't have any intention of suffering Joffrey to ascend to the throne, nor will she live through the Dragon Queen’s conquest. There is only one Targaryen that deserves the Iron Throne, though she doubts Jon would ever want to claim it. But that is a matter for another day. There are only so many issues Sansa can tackle at once, and she has no influence yet. Still, she knows the problems will percolate at the back of her mind, declining to be supressed for long.

She eats her dessert, with a fake smile pasted on her lips. Her favourite lemoncake is cloying against her throat, the rich sponge almost choking her, before she washes it down with cool water.

Formulating complex strategies is something Sansa now has ample experience in. Determining how much time she has to work in is more difficult. She cannot afford to rush, and give away her true intentions. She must wear a mask of steel and iron, like Robb’s crown was said to be, hiding her claws and teeth. But slowly, steadily, Sansa will assume the mantle that was as always hers to take; she is a Stark of Winterfell, a wolf of the North, and Winter is Coming. She will never allow herself to be collared and chained again. The price for her freedom is a cost which could never be too high.

*

She seizes her opportunity, as soon as an opening presents itself. Theon has always been a betting man; a known gambler and whoremonger. Sansa-that-was was unaware of much of this. She had been far too concerned with herself, and all her selfish wishes to abandon the North for a Southern husband, to notice much else. She has vowed to never be that stupid, vainglorious girl again. It begins here, with her siblings and true friends.

The Sansa she is now, can finally understand Theon’s sly looks and whispered japes (even if most are said out of her hearing). No one expects the prim and proper eldest daughter of Eddard Stark to challenge Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, to a bet. Not even in jest. Theon’s mouth hangs open dumbly, when Sansa suggests it, a playful smile dancing around her lips.

She is too young for the smile to be misconstrued. But she knows that same smile on her elder face and body, the one that she had before she died and reawakened in the past, would be taken as flirtation. An enticement to more. Theon shifts uncomfortably, and Sansa wonders if she has in fact miscalculated, and he will think her wanton. It matters nought, if she obtains her objective.

“You think Jon will best Robb?” he repeats her suggestion, as though her words were spoken in a language foreign to him.

The clash of tourney swords rings through the yard as her brothers spar, panting with exertion. They have been at it long, and are both visibly tiring. They are not as skilled as they will become, Sansa knows. Just as she knows Jon has always been the better swordsman of the two. She remembers Arya boasting of Jon's prowess in this fight, in her first life. Now that she herself knows how to look for it, Sansa sees her sister was right about his skill.

“Jon’s form is far superior,” Sansa shrugs, as though that truth were nothing of consequence.

As if it was natural, that a lady of breeding would stoop to an honest assessment of skill. Instead of exulting an heir over a younger son, let alone a bastard, as any highborn would. Sansa-that-was would never neglect her lessons to skirt the yard and watch her brothers. She had found swordplay grim, dirty and boring, versus gossip and laughter with her friends. Now, though it is sweeter than she ever imagined to be with Beth and Jeyne again, her friend’s concerns are not her own. Their chatter is idle, ridiculous and sometimes spiteful, though innocent compared to the ladies in King’s Landing. Since Sansa returned, she has stopped insulting her sister and demanded her friends do the same. They look at Sansa with barely veiled confusion. Theon looks at her that same way, now.

Still, she cannot take back her words, even as her heart beats wildly, praying he will not question her changed attitude.

“If I take that bet and win, dear Lady Sansa, what’ll I gain?” Theon eventually asks, his wry smile firmly back in place.

“What should you like, Lord Theon?” She mimics his formal address, politely, and sees the sparkle of honest pleasure in his eyes for a change. It is not usual for Theon’s smile to be so genuine.

Jon feints to his left before striking out on his right instead. Robb skitters backward, but is still caught with a glancing blow to the ribs. His yelp of pain carries easily across the yard. Sansa watches Robb grimace, but hold his ground; lunging out a strike of his own, which Jon easily repels.

“A dance!” Theon declares over the singing of steel. “If Robb wins, I ask for the pleasure of your company, during the first dance of Bran’s name-day feast, my lady.”

“I accept your terms, my lord.” Sansa readily agrees. It is not a difficulty to accept, by any means. Theon is a graceful dancer. Sansa has no desire to wait for another man to ask her, when she can seize the chance to be on the floor immediately. She needs to find a Northern boy worthy of her hand, before Robert is compelled to come North. That won’t happen without considerable effort on her part, and every gathering of Northmen is an occasion to impress. Even if she knows this is one particular bet Theon will never win.

“Ah-ah,” Theon tuts playfully, “I can’t agree to the wager if I don’t know all the terms.”

Sansa pretends to consider her forfeit, should she win. She feels his eyes glancing over her still form, as she watches her brothers swipe at one another.

“If Jon wins… then you must assist me in an endeavour of my choosing, without question or complaint.” Sansa declares.

Theon chuckles, no doubt finding her choice absurd. “I suppose you wish me to sit still, while you braid ribbons into my hair, my lady?”

Sansa smiles, but chooses to say no more. Thankfully, Theon’s curiosity wins out. He agrees to her terms, and looks only mildly disturbed, when she refuses to name the task he must assist her with. Jon wins his bout with Robb, just as she said he would.

*

“Meet me in the godswood, early on the morrow,” Sansa whispers as she twirls elegantly around Theon, their palms pressed together as they move in tandem. Theon lost the bet, but Sansa needs him in high spirits, and dances with him first, and repeatedly, throughout Bran’s name-day celebrations.

Theon’s brow furrows, but he does not object. Judging by how deep in their cups most men already are, there will be little chance they will be seen by anyone if they rise and slip out early. She can tell Theon is longing to ask her to explain herself, but he cannot seem to find the words. Inevitably, he settles on being offensive.

“Anyone would think you wanted to get me all alone, my little lady,” he grins, licentious and unashamed.

She wonders what he hopes to achieve, by goading her. Perhaps Theon wishes to give her a chance to blush and stammer and back away from him. Sansa-that-was could be relied upon to parade her virtue. She would have been horrified at any hint of impropriety. But this Sansa knows Theon would never dare take liberties with her. And after enduring Joffrey’s vicious taunts, and Ramsay’s brutal madness, she doubts any mere words Theon could say, will ever truly frighten her. She chooses to ignore his taunt, and sees the surprise flare in his eyes when she maintains the sharp steps of the dance, undeterred. His smile never falters.

“You promised to assist me, without complaint.” She reminds him quietly, mindful of the jolly crowd around them. “Will you come?”

The song is almost at an end; a lively Riverlands tune played to honour her lady mother, and their Tully heritage. Sansa knows the steps intuitively, even though this younger body must only have learnt them lately.

Theon holds her eyes, for once silent in his assessment. She remains stoic under his scrutiny, refusing to flush beneath his unwavering attention. Whatever he finds in her face, is enough to captivate him into agreement.

“Aye, my lady,” he rasps, “I’ll come.”

The music draws to an end, and all the dancers slow to an standstill. Most men merely bow to their ladies. Theon goes a step further; he clasps her hand, and presses a gentle kiss to it. Sansa ignores the heat rising on her face, telling herself she is only warmed from the vigorous steps of the dance.

Sansa curtsies perfectly. Theon takes a step back, but before he can release her entirely, she steps forward again and whispers; “Come alone. Don’t tell Robb.”

She refuses to look down in maidenly shame when his eyes snap toward her, his stare wide with alarm. She doesn’t give him the chance to question her, only squeezes his hand briefly, then turns away and hurries to freedom, eager to escape Theon’s bright, soulful eyes. _He is a handsome man,_ she thinks, then pushes the unbidden thought away with vengeance.

*


	3. Ned

THE FOOLHARDY TRAVELLER

There was a change with Sansa. It was subtle, a slight shift, but something was different. Ned could not put a name to it, could not express it in exact wording, but he knew what he felt. He saw that she had suddenly become less flippant, more serious, and hoped it was an indication of a move away from girlhood to becoming a sensible woman, akin to her mother.

It was somewhat of a relief. For Sansa had ever been a sweet girl, almost too innocent, and she needed to be strong enough to survive the truth of this world. Advice Catelyn regularly gave her must at last have made an impact, and allowed Sansa to look beyond the simple honeydew of songs. Ned knew Sansa would continue to make him proud. And that was enough to allow him to set aside the niggling voices in the back of his mind, telling him to be wary of his eldest daughter and her new attitude.


	4. Sansa II

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa dresses in her simplest, darkest clothes. Her plainest cloak covers her recognisable hair. She cannot afford to be questioned or noticed. She slips out of the castle, walking slowly, but with purpose. The bundle in her arms, wrapped in dark furs could be anything. But she doubts the guards would have cause to question a girl dressed almost plain enough to be a servant. Sansa has learnt the value of confidence, so she is careful to never slow her stride, nor speed up. The godswood is deserted at this hour, as she knew it would be.

She walks far enough to be concealed amongst the sturdy trees, hidden from the gate. It is still summer, warm enough to go without thick furs. She avoids the heart tree; and indeed all weirwoods. She will not damage them in her efforts to become an archer, or she will risk the wrath of the old gods.

Sansa never felt the cold as much as her brother’s bannermen, even in the depth of winter. She quickly abandons her cloak, hoping Theon will join her soon. Her prayers are answered, as she spies him slinking toward her, deftly avoiding the exposed roots and muddy furrows. He is wary, she can tell; his eyes flicking all about them, as though suspecting some trickery. Still, he leaps with confidence over a particularly jagged rock, landing on one leg with a flourish and a cocky smile. His balance is steady, no pain on his face as he bounds toward her, giving Sansa a bold smile followed by a shallow bow. His antics should irritate her, she knows. Theon is a foolish, insecure boy, playing at being a brave, carefree man. But her heart lurches, to see him so whole, so sure on his feet. The last time they were in a wood together, they were fleeing from Bolton’s hounds, terrified and wounded both.

She shakes off the image of that broken, battered creature she will never see again, as Theon approaches her.

“My lady,” he greets her warmly, but she knows the affable grin on his face is a lie.

Theon’s real smiles were reserved for Robb, alone. Sansa fights the urge to clench her fists, and vows to pray to the old gods that it will not always be so. If she can forge a more honest relationship between Theon and the North, he might be their true ally in the wars to come. But he needs to feel valued. In the Vale, trapped by the whims of Sweetrobin and Aunt Lysa, while Baelish skulked in the shadows, Sansa learnt what it means to be on the edge of a family. Constantly on edge, always frightened for the future; and she was not threatened with execution. But he will only be safe if Balon does not rebel, if the North is ever undefended.

She shakes off her worries like snowflakes caught in a direwolf’s fur. It may never come to pass. Each step must come at its proper time.

“Good morrow, my lord,” she says, with a formal curtsey. “I trust you enjoyed sound sleep, and the day finds you well.”

Theon quirks one eyebrow, tossing his rich, glossy hair over one shoulder. “My sleep was very deep, and well earned, thank you.”

His sultry tone, and obvious emphasis on certain phrases, would never have been understood by Sansa-that-was. Then again, they would not be together like is, if this body were truly a reflection of the girl residing in it. But she understands his lopsided smile all too well, and cannot help but wonder which serving wench he tumbled the night before. His satisfied smirk tells her more than she ever cares to know, of the events taking place in his bedchamber in the hour of the wolf.

Sansa ignores the way her heart gives a disobedient stutter. If her face flushes, it is merely from the cold. The tense set of her shoulders reveal her apprehension, even though she keeps control of her expression. Briefly it occurs to her, that this may be the first time they have ever been alone with one another. To his knowledge, anyway.

“I am glad to know you are well rested, Theon,” she blithely replies, “As I require your eyes bright and aware.”

“Ah, yes, my sworn duty. And what does my lady command?” He teases her, mockingly over-chivalrous.

Sansa’s weakness for romantic songs and gallant knights is well-known, and oft belittled by her brothers. She ignores his taunting, stooping to uncover the bundle that has lain unobtrusive at her feet. The bow laying among the furs does not belong to Theon. Nor is it one of her brother’s. Those are finely made, decoratively carved from strong wood, and would quickly be missed. The plain one she stole from the armoury is shorter than a longbow, made specifically with the training of green boys in mind. She was careful in selecting one that had seen use, but was still sturdy and well-kept.

“I wish for you to teach me,” she says. The words are simple enough, said with a careless shrug, but spoken clearly, and with force.

His sea blue eyes widen in shock, and his smile finally falters. To behold it, should not be as satisfying as it is.

*

Theon refuses, of course. Mayhaps he believes it a jape, some silly game. Her stubborn insistence of serious intention gives him pause, but still, the answer is no.

Sansa anticipated this.

Theon is aware of his tenuous position in the household. The Starks have treated him well, for a hostage. They did not have to allow him to be trained in arms. Nor allow him to attend lessons, alongside the Lord Paramount of the North’s own children. Theon could have been forced to perform menial tasks, dressed as a servant and beaten for the merest infraction. They could have starved him, locked him away, shunned him at every turn. Father would never have done so, but another, less honourable lord, might have.

But Sansa knows Theon lives in fear of his privileges being removed, just the same. If they were discovered, Theon would surely lose much freedom and trust. Robb might protest, but not overmuch. Not if he believed Theon had been meeting in secret with Sansa, with dishonourable intentions. Theon’s appetites are well known, and he would suspect the worst. It would tarnish her reputation, if they were discovered, no matter her young age.

A single morn, they could reason away. But a series of meetings, where anyone could stumble across them? Where their joint absence was noted and remarked upon? He would be a fool not to worry. Gossip spreads like wildfire among the smallfolk. It wouldn’t take long for her mother or siblings to hear of it, to question their behaviour.

The archery is another problem all together. They both know Lord Stark would never countenance such a thing. Weapons are dangerous, especially in unskilled hands. If any harm came to Sansa under such circumstances, no one would hold her to account. Not if they could blame an over-familiar ‘squid’. No one would believe that the idea had been her own. The blame would fall solely on Theon, and the punishment would be severe. She is aware of the selfishness of her command. But the danger he faces, is nothing compared to the horrors they all face, and are woefully under-prepared for. She cannot afford to be defenceless when the Long Night falls again.

She knows Theon, far better than he could ever know the person she has become. He has no hope in a battle of words, not against Sansa Stark. She honed her wordplay in King’s Landing, under the tutelage of the likes of Cersei, Littlefinger and the Tyrell women. She knows the power of words. How to wield them, when to withhold them. She wheedles, whines and cajoles, flatters and sighs.

Theon still is a boy on the cusp of manhood. Like so many young men, he is easily charmed by a pretty face, and honeyed words. He allows himself to be persuaded without much effort.

*

She assumes he thinks her like to falter at the first mistake. That when he corrects her stance and bemoans her weak grip, she will fuss and whine and give up. Mayhaps he would be right, if her mission was not of so much import. If she did not know her enemies so well. But Sansa will prove herself a dutiful student, patient and obedient. She was always good at following instruction; Septa Mordane did not heap praises upon her head, merely because of who she was.

Archery is not like embroidery. Though the careful focus, absolute investment and attention is the same. Sansa is not a strong girl, and it takes a lot of effort to draw back the string and loose an arrow. Theon tuts and adjusts her elbow, repeatedly chiding her for taking too long. Soon her fingers begin to chafe, red and sore, her arms burning from the strain of perfecting her stance. It is a good ache. Honest work, difficult to master.

When the hour to break their fast grows close, Sansa thanks her reluctant tutor. She knows how important it is to make a person feel appreciated, needed. She reminds Theon of his promise to aid her, and begs him to tell no one. For a long moment, she thinks he will argue. That he might proclaim no woman worth his tutelage. The storms in his light, sea-green eyes are hard to read. But she sees the mischievous flicker behind that wall of dismissal.

He leaves with a gruff assessment of her paltry skills, taking the bow with him. But he does agree to meet her again. Sansa watches him march away, brisk yet quiet. When his lithe form has disappeared through the trees, she sags to the dirty, leaf-littered ground. Laughter bubbles in her throat, and for a short blissful while, she lets the madness swallow her up.

*

She breaks her fast with her family, a precious bounty she once squandered. The fare is simpler than she remembers, having grown accustomed to the rich pickings in the Crownlands and Vale. But it is hearty and warm, and shared among the only people she has ever loved.

Arya is energetic, full of tales of the Mormont women, who apparently spent the feast poking through Winterfell’s armoury. Sansa keeps quiet, letting her sister enjoy the recount. Bran is also in high spirits, naturally, having received a cornucopia of gifts, including a pony. He’s excited for his first riding lessons, already anticipating jousting in a Southern tournament. Her sweet-natured little brother, so warm and wide-eyed, who became a blank stone, dedicated only to the weirwoods. Not this time, Sansa vows. The old gods can find another oracle.

“May I join Bran for his riding lessons, Father?” Sansa asks politely, keeping her face placidly calm. She cannot afford to seem desperate.

Sansa was never a good rider, too afraid of appearing wild and unruly. Horses were oft ill-tempered, frightening to a gentle girl. Large dusty beasts that would ruin a lady’s delicate dress, whipping her hair into a tangle in the wind, making her skin shiny with ugly perspiration and an uneven flush. But in this life, Sansa must make a match with a Northman, or at most, a lord in the Riverlands. She must be competent in skills that will impress men who have no time for fearful flowers.

“You have other lessons to attend, Sansa,” Mother says reprovingly, “And you have plenty of free time to indulge other interests.”

“Septa Mordane has said I am progressing very quickly in my studies, Mother. She said my sewing lessons need not be so frequent.”

Sansa speaks only the truth; histories, Westerosi law and customs, household management, these are things she understands far beyond the knowledge she should have at this stage. She blames her leap in progress at her eagerness to regain footing, after being confined to the sickroom. She has been careful to add in the odd mistake, having realised she was suspiciously lacking effort in her assigned tasks. Her dreadful accounting is not faked; she has never had a head for figures.

Her skill at sewing cannot be hidden. It is too tedious to slow her fingers, and Sansa cannot countenance wasting good material with falsely placed stitches. Winter is coming, and sturdy clothing is needed. After sufficient time, the plainer garments are always given to the keep’s servants. They are modified to clothe themselves and their families. Waste material becomes rags, to soak in tar for torches or women to fill their smallclothes during their moonblood. There will always be wool and cotton left over, but there need not be profligate excess.

Sansa recently finished a smart tunic in a deep blue wool, carefully edged in green and grey vines. Mother and Septa both cooed over the work, surprised by the intricate detailing. She has kept it in her room for days, waiting for an appropriate moment to gift it.

She waits patiently for her declaration to be considered. Her roaming gaze settles on Jon, who is not eating with them. Instead he is sandwiched in at the lower tables, so as not to unsettle their guests. It is for Mother’s sake, and it hurts to know that Sansa would once have agreed with that disrespect. The treatment bastards receive is disgraceful, she now understands intimately. She shakes off the memory of grasping hands in the Eyrie, stolen, unwanted kisses and savage promises.

Jon never approaches her, so Sansa has made a point of seeking him out to wish him good day. She publicly complimented his skill in the yard, when she won her wager. His smiles are confused and hesitant, but she returns them without reservation, and has not referred to him once as ‘half-brother’.

“Why riding, Sansa?” Father presses her, regaining her attention. “You never expressed much fervour in such things.”

She shrugs as carelessly as she can affect. “Mine own lessons concluded some time ago, but I never advanced satisfactorily, Father. It would be remiss of me to leave a fundamental skill to languish.”

“A very mature approach,” Father concedes, “If Septa agrees with your assessment, I see no reason why you cannot be spared for an afternoon per sennight, to join Bran.”

Bran frowns, likely worried Sansa will dominate his lessons with her requests. She is already cherishing time spent with her real brother, rather than the living shell that replaced him. Sansa leans across the table to ruffle his hair, his auburn locks thick and unruly.

“I am a terrible horsewoman, Bran. You’ll soon surpass me.” She assures him, “We shall race through the wolfwood with Jory, and no doubt you will win every time.”

His smile is wide and wonderful. Sansa ignores Theon’s gaze, burning into her from the other end of the table. She would not know how to answer his questions, if he even knew how to give voice to them. 

*

Sansa rests uneasily on her featherbed each night. There were not enough bannermen in attendance at the celebration of Bran’s birth. Regardless, the revelry had continued long after the hour of the wolf. As usual there were few additions to the household when their guests began to leave.

Fostering between noble houses in the North is practically unheard of in these days. It is little wonder the relations between Starks and their bannermen were so low. But she will be alone with Bran for hours at time. She knows how to plant an idea. There are few knights to squire for in the North, but their mother is a Tully by birth. Brynden the Blackfish is a renowned knight, respected by Father and loved by Mother. It should be an easy scheme to bring to bloom. That should take him far enough away from whispers on the icy wind.

In the long hours of darkness, Sansa recalls the North as she knew it, in the time of Jon’s reign. Many of the lords recently hosted in her lord father’s castle, had no longer been living by then. They had been replaced by their lordling sons, brothers or grandsons. Or where the succession was in question, their keeps and holdfasts were juggled by hungry cousins and their jealous bastard brothers. If it all comes to pass as it did then… in a few short years, the North will be unrecognisable. Their numbers were decimated by Robb’s call to war. Battles with the Ironborn, Boltons, and later Jon and Sansa’s own forces, cleaved their numbers like a butcher’s knife cuts meat.

Is it her duty, to ensure the lineage of these fickle lords? Those who spit on her as a Lannister cast-off, a Bolton bride not worth consideration? Who denied the very existence House Stark? Until her valiant cousin fought and nearly died to earn their respect. Most of them disregarded their pleas, until the Battle of the Bastards was already won. The Umbers turned little Rickon over, to the only monster worse than Joffrey Baratheon. Ramsay could not be allowed to live. Somehow, her father must learn of his crimes and execute him. But how she could orchestrate such a thing, she knew not. But it must be done.

It is unwise and unkind of her to damn them all, she knows. Many had been worried they would not survive coming winter. Few men had remained, after Robb’s march south. The meagre harvest had been depleted by sending half of it to his army. Stores low, their supplies and men depleted, with former enemies housed on their lands. The North was fractured, hostile. But burns her throat bitterly, every time she must swallow down her ire.

She finds no easy road to sleep.

*

Sansa feels his eyes following her as she walks to her lessons or sups with her family. Whenever she looks back, Theon has usually turned away. But she catches the quick movement, the swish of his hair or twitch of his shoulders. He eyes her with confusion and doubt. She is not the Sansa he knows, the frail flower so determined to be a proper lady she nearly lost herself along the route. She is determined, steadfast. Despite having no natural prowess, and thin arms, alien to exertion.

Theon grumbles at her slow progress, bemoaning the early rises he need not subject himself to. But Sansa sees the glow of pride in his eyes. She is shaping into a real archer, under his tutelage alone. No one to share the praise with, or compare his method to.

They meet at irregular hours, to disguise the pattern of their shared absences.

“Hold your elbow steady,” he tuts, pushing it higher with his fingertips. “The shaft follows its trajectory.”

Her arm throbs from holding the string taut for so long, but she does not complain. She takes a deep breath, and lets go on the exhale. She hits a tree hard enough for the arrowhead to lodge in the bark. Far from the mark Theon had scored with his hunting knife, but progress nonetheless.

“Better,” Theon grunts, “But you still take far too long to aim.”

Sansa will take it.

 *

She writes regularly to her Uncle Benjen. It is not an easy feat to accomplish. Sansa-that-was had never shown much interest in the Black Knights. Their stories had no fair maidens, only monsters prowling in the snow. She had done her duty and written to him when asked, but not frequently, and not without cause. It had taken every ounce of her strongest, most courteous manner to allay Maester Luwin’s suspicious nature. But she succeeded in charming him. Making him believe she had an urge to fulfil her family duty, by sending words of warmth and love to her brave Uncle, the chivalrous Ranger on the Wall.

Benjen expresses surprise and gratitude for her unprompted letters. She knows he writes to her father. Just as she knows Ned Stark not a poetic man, famously of few words. But Sansa is well-known for her determination to be a lady. Her letters are long and detailed, with news of Winterfell, and her family. She heaps praise on her siblings and their accomplishments, Theon included. She confesses her doubts about any upcoming betrothal taking her far from home. She lays out her determination to marry to a Northman.

Scattered amongst these girlish outpourings, she asks for clarification of the stories and legends she has heard, with all the courtly flourish she could master. Benjen is reluctant to reveal much, at first. His frequent ranging Beyond the Wall made his responses unreliably irregular. But slowly, surely, with her mature penmanship and turns of phrase, she fools him into forgetting just how young she is.

Benjen is a shrewd, careful man. But he is unable to behold her. To see how small and weak she is, with her high, clear voice. He begins to reveal unsettling truths she knows he would otherwise have kept secret far longer. She hoards her letters, keeping them securely locked in a small chest with a lock, which was a gift from her lady mother. She suspects there will come a time when they prove very useful.

*

Sansa takes advantage of her opening, as soon as it prevents itself. Her quarry is not hard to unearth, for all that he avoids undue attention. With the others attending to their lessons, and Mother safely sequestered in her solar, she seizes her chance.

Jon stares at the tunic she has pressed into his hands in astonishment. He traces the neat embroidered vines, the richly dyed wool fit for a lord. Or a hidden prince. Sansa is tired of seeing Jon in dour shades, or Robb’s cast-offs. She had to hand it over in private, so that he was not embarrassed by her attention, or shamed by anyone else’s reaction.

“It is… lovely, Sansa.” Jon swallows visibly, “But I cannot accept something so fine. It would not be fit.”

He looks leery of even holding such a finely stitched garment. Jon was never one for ostentation, so Sansa had been careful to limit her artistic flair. She crosses her arms, playing at being her petulant former self.

“I made it for you.” She insists, “And I shall be offended if you reject my gift.”

Jon twists the material in between his hands, longing plain on his face. She doubts it is for the lordly tunic itself, but rather the acceptance that comes with it. The idea that Sansa spent hours working on something entirely new, especially for him. That such care and attention was obviously taken.

“I am only sorry I could not complete it before the feast. The Manderleys brought the material with them see, and I knew the colour would look splendid with your hair.” She continues, undaunted by his reluctance.

Sansa has an inkling a dress was made for Arya from the same bolts of fabric, in another life. That dress would be ruined, ignored and unappreciated. Arya will gladly wear coarser fabric, that would better withstand climbing and tussling in the dirt anyway. The unmade dress will not be missed, so Sansa had snapped it up for her own project instead. Jon shares Arya’s colouring, and Sansa will not see him constantly clad in black, if she can prevent it. The dark blue will look very fetching on him.

Jon flounders, cheeks bright red from her attention. He is completely unable to formulate an argument. In the end Jon can only nod, clutching his new tunic with pride.

“Thank you, Sansa.” He whispers, standing a little taller.

Delighted by her success, Sansa bounces onto the tip of her toes, to press a kiss to his cheek. She rushes away before he can change his mind, to alter her own clothes. Her pale green dress would be very unsuitable for riding. Her freedom is calling. With enough practice, she will ensure she need never rely on another man to provide an escape, ever again.

*


	5. Theon

THE FORMER TRAVELLER

Sansa was acting strange. Theon had come upon her several times in the glass gardens, a small book in her hands, with a flower on the cover. The first time, he assumed she was reading poetry or songs, the sweet lies of pretenders long-dead, their names forgotten, though their words lived on. The second time, he thought perhaps the book was a favourite, or told tales about the feminine secrets of flowers. After that, the curiosity got the best of him, and he had to ask.

Sansa bestowed upon him that new smile of hers, the small secretive one, the private one that seemed like it was reserved especially for him.

"I am learning which plants are important and which are just for decoration," she said softly, "This book has some insight."

"Whatever for?" Theon asked, his mouth working before his head had chance to intervene. He winced to realise how insensitive and uncouth he must sound. Before he could say another word, Sansa let out a bright laugh.

"For no reason other than the joy of knowing." she said winsomely, and he huffed out a laugh of his own.

"What does this plant do then?" he asked, pointing toward the squat, leafy green shrub, currently attempting to consume his ankles.

Sansa gave the plant a good squint, before letting out an indistinct noise of consideration. When after a moment the answer was not forthcoming, Sansa let the book fall open into her lap, peeling back a page or two, giving the painted images a thorough look.

"Ah-ah!" Theon teased, "That's cheating."

Sansa fixed him a flat look, in an attempt to keep her amusement hidden; "I've not memorised them all!" She scolded him playfully.

"Not yet, eh?" he continued to jape, "Ah, you disappoint me, my lady."

"I am so very sorry," Sansa replied in an exaggerated manner, "Mayhaps you ought to help me learn them."

Theon grinned, broadly and unhindered by any kind of uncertainty. "As ever, my lady, I am at your service."

Sansa sprang to her feet then, and accosted him about the arm, to lead him along the path and begin pointing out the considerable amount of plants she did know.


	6. Sansa III

THE LONE TRAVELLER

The days pass without much incident of worth. Her progress on horseback is far slower than that of the bow. Bran needs time to learn basic manoeuvres, and his proficiency is of more import than Sansa’s whim to partake in her brother’s lessons. Jory has Ryswell in his ancestry, perhaps a reason why he is so proficient with horseflesh. Secondary to his duty as a guard of Winterfell, he attends Ned Stark whenever the Lord of Winterfell has to purchase horses. Sansa accosts him with questions, trying to understand what makes a good beast, and what hidden hazards to look for. Jory seems amused by her interest, and indulges her. He builds it into somewhat of a game, to see if they can name every type of horse in the stables, and those ridden brought by traders, or vassal houses bringing their taxes to Winterfell.

Sansa eventually learns to separate a palfrey from a rounsey, the drays which plough the fields and transport grain, Bran’s lone pony, and the coursers that fill their stables. Father’s lone destrier is an elderly horse, retired from warfare and nothing at all like Sandor Clegane’s cantankerous beast. There are no hardy garrons this far South; bred as they are in the Gift, specifically for the Night’s Watch. Though apparently this breed is also favoured by the Northern mountain clans. Jory promises to point them out, when the Black Brothers visit next. Apparently, her Uncle Benjen rides one, so Sansa seizes this topic to write another letter. She extolls all she knows, lamenting that she will never see a Dornish Sand steed, implying that she never intends to travel South. She also pleads for Benjen to arrange the sale for a garron of her own.

It will be a far cry from the docile palfrey she had before, but she knows with no shadow of doubt, she will never be gifted a warhorse. Quite aside from the lack of decorum it would show, it would also be a bold, attention-grabbing statement. No one would believe a girl capable of wielding such a large, aggressive animal, was anything but the same. It would also be seen as a frivolous waste of money; to throw away a charger on a woman who would never see battle. Any implication that she might put it to its proper use would be incredibly foolish on her part. She must work in the shadows. There must be little evidence of her abilities to drag into the light, so that suspicious eyes do not fall on her.

But she also recognises the need to own a creature capable of stout heart. Garrons are special horses, specifically robust, bred for the cold climate and deep snows. They are the strongest on rough terrain, which even the majestic destrier struggles with. Garrons are the only horse capable of repeated travel North of the Wall. There is no more resilient beast that Sansa could hope to use. If she ever needs to flee her home again, all the better to leave on a magnificent beast that could take her anywhere, even high into the mountains.

Still, her capability on the actual horse leaves much to be desired. Sansa is more confident than she ever remembers being, sitting still and using a commanding tone. Her leg movements are strong, instead of a tiny nudge from weak ankles, as it was in her first life. However, she much prefers her lessons in warfare, from Theon. Sansa oft falls asleep to the thought of archers filling the battlement crenulations, or lined up on a shoreline, their arrow-tips alight with burning flame. What must it be, to stand in front of an army, as Ramsay’s archers did? Row upon row of deadly intention, with tiny the spears pulled taught against the bow, each man curved back, aiming high into the clouds. Mayhaps she will discover what that poignant, pregnant moment feels like, someday. Theon is a dedicated teacher, and Sansa has no doubt she will be capable of it, providing their lessons last long enough.

Theon has treated her well, since recognising his opportunity. Sansa is his acolyte, devoted to his method. During their private moments, he is the centre of attention, and she follows his every command. To a boy scorned and largely ignored by the guards and other men with standing in Winterfell (with the exception of Robb), it must be an ocean of consideration in comparison. Sansa thinks she can finally understand the nuance of Theon and Robb. Robb, the lord in training sometimes lost amongst his grave responsibility. Theon, the fun, elder brother figure, in need of a pupil to take under his wing, to counteract the many that belittle his contribution. They are a matched pair. Sansa wonders, in idle moments, if Robb would have grown to be as serious and sullen as Jon, if it were not for Theon. The Ironborn are famous for irreverent revelry; some of that must have been carried within him. Enough to drag Robb out of his sometimes imposed isolation, to shrug off his duties for an hour or four, in the pursuit of merriment.

But Theon is surprisingly subdued while they are alone. There is no one to impress with his clever remarks. She remembers his casual cruelty, his mean comments, designed to poke fun at all of her chivalrous dreams. But this Sansa doesn’t waste time chirping about knights and songs. Instead, she does as he demands without question. She follows his instruction, without endless debate, and adheres to his advice. It is more respect than many of the household show him, she knows. That kind of deference must be heady, to a disparaged hostage. Brick by brick, Sansa builds a bridge between them. Until it seems natural to sit at his feet, sharing a sack of apples, and ask him about the Iron Islands.

Theon regards her with some surprise, as though no one has ever asked him about his home. Mayhaps they haven’t. Robb has never much cared for anywhere outside the North. Too busy learning the needs and disputes of his own people. Theon is only too happy to take advantage of a willing ear. He tells her of powerful, streamlined ships, bare rocks moulded by salt and spray, his Uncle Dagmer, a great warrior who always treated him well. His bizarre Uncle Aeron, wholly devoted to the Drowned God, constantly cold and dripping sea-water.

This leads to legends about the Drowned God himself, tales not unlike the ones Old Nan spins on wet and windy afternoons. There are false starts, when Theon’s lips twist into a grimace over a story he cannot remember the finer details of. After several of these fits and spurts, Sansa urges him to write to his favoured Uncle, who is apparently a distant relation, rather than brother to one of his parents. And she implies that his sister might also wish to hear from him. Theon snorts dismissively, but something in his eyes seems curious. She suggests reports of his proficiency with the bow and sword, hunting and horse-riding, and dagger-throwing contests, might be of interest.

“They’ll want to know if I’ve taken any salt wives, yet.” Theon sighs, and though Sansa has some vague knowledge, she pretends otherwise, and asks him to elaborate. He explains their status as thralls, but how their children are treated far better than bastards. She didn't know that the current House Greyjoy is in fact descended from a trueborn lord and his salt wife’s get, having no other heirs to become Lord.

Sansa shudders. “How horrible,” she sniffs, “To have so many wives to care for!”

Theon frowns, perplexed. He cannot understand how truly and deeply she feels horror on behalf of these enslaved women, no more than broodmares for their pirate husbands. No doubt he thinks it a boast-worthy achievement, to have many women, and only sees the benefit of laying with a variety. He thinks only of his own pleasure, and nothing of responsibility, and duty towards those women.

“Think on it,” Sansa continues, “A man must provide a warm, safe home, dresses and food and trinkets. Father lavishes attention on Mother, especially when she is with child. Imagine doing so for four women or more!”

Theon blanches, quite unwillingly imagining such a scenario. Sansa pretends not to see his discomfort, and whittles on.

“The cost of shoes alone!” she trills, “Not to mention the babes. If each wife had two each, that would be eight. All children need a station in life, holdings and a household to run it, not to mention eight marriage pacts, dowries…”

“It’s an outmoded practice anyway,” Theon mumbles, down-hearted.

“Still, it’s lovely that they care for their bastards so well, educating them in a useful trade. And allowing them to be raised by their mothers.” Sansa acknowledges, with a knowing look.

She knows Theon will consider the life of a salt wife’s son, versus Jon’s plight. Raised amongst his “betters”, Jon will always be derided, overshadowed, his achievements pushed aside. The son of a salt wife will be raised under the love of a mother, visited by a father invested in their future. Expecting them to fight as a warrior on their ship, when they are grown. Meaning they will be taught not only arms, but sea-faring, a lifelong trade. That is a more stable future than Jon has ever been presented with.

Sansa stifles her gasp of surprise when she realises this. Has she been as neglectful as her lord father, regarding Jon? For all her noble intention to see Jon free of the Night’s Watch, free to take up the mantle of his birth right, she gave no real thought as to his position in the interim. She has had imprecise imaginings of him fighting alongside Robb, but in what capacity? As a guard, a sworn shield? Or as a bannerman, with lands of his own? The North is littered with crumbling, empty holdfasts. If they are to keep their lands free of Southern invaders or undead monsters, they need more defences. It is yet another plan to formulate.

She springs up to claim her bow, to distract herself from her oversight. Theon chortles as she wobbles, unsteady in her eagerness. He reaches out a hand to secure her, something he would never have done scant moons ago. As she leans into the confident hand at her hip, Sansa attempts to convince herself it is no more intimate a touch than dancing.

*

Dressing in Northern garb and cantering about with Bran is one thing. And it is easy for Sansa to lose herself in the feminine arts, which were always her strong suit. But no Northman will take a bride who has no head for numbers. Southern women could rely on appointed castellans and stewards to oversee their bountiful crops. Spending their days twittering in the sunlight, and nibbling sweet cakes. But in the North, the lady of the keep is expected to help run the household. Stores of food, candles, furs, servant’s clothing; mending, building and cleaning supplies. These are only some of the things maintained by her lady mother at Winterfell. Sansa obediently sits with Mother, whenever she balances the accounts. But the numbers bounce across the page, when she attempts to make sense of them. They may as well have been written in High Valyrian.  
   
Mother is far too busy to pester for additional lessons. Though Sansa is glad kindly Maester Luwin and patient Septa Mordane still live, she hardly wishes to spend excess time with them. Their lessons can be exceedingly dry, if the subject is not a stimulating one. She spends several successive nights pouring over her notes, which serves only to frustrate her to tears. She needs must do what she did with her other deficiencies; find a tutor.  
   
It is when she attends the rookery to feed the ravens, that inspiration comes. Having long since learnt which ravens go where, so that she can send her letters to Benjen, she suddenly sees her own path as she traipses out. As she stumbles down the steep staircase of the Maester’s tower, she catches a glimpse of Luwin: asleep in his chair. His winkled face is serene in sleep, grey as his crumpled robes. The door to his library is wide open. Directly across from Sansa, is a towering structure crammed with reams of parchment.  
   
Letters, decrees, missives. Hundreds of messages, dutifully cared for and copied by the maester when they fade. And on the very bottom shelf, a row of dark, leather-bound books. The very same kind Mother and Father use, to keep track of the North’s finances. Sansa finds herself creeping across the warped wooden floor before she can stop herself. Her dainty feet skitter across the room, avoiding an errant ink bottle tucked into the rucked edge of a dusty rug. Just as she is reaching down to collect her prize, Luwin gives out a tremendous rumbling snore. Sansa shoots into the air in fright, her spine snapping straight. Her sudden movement rattles the entire case. Releasing a giant plume of dust. She hides her face in her hair instinctively, to avoid the worst of it.  
   
A horrible silence fills the room in the wake of her mistake. Heart beating wildly, she is sure she has been caught. Sheepishly, Sansa pierrotites to face the consequences. He gives a smack of ancient lips, but Luwin remains fast asleep. Sansa wastes no more time; snatching at a book from the back, cautiously wriggling it loose. Then she turns tail and rushes out, reluctant to press her luck further.  
   
*  
   
The next day, she sets herself a task she could complete in her sleep; gloves. At this age, Sansa should find leather tough to work with. But she has fashioned shoulder guards from boiled leather. Three sets of embroidered gloves are completed with much time to spare, as she intended. Declaring her intention to gift them immediately, Sansa strides from the sewing circle, unheeding of Arya’s protests.  
   
The boys are in the yard, drilling their footwork. Most days they spar, but occasionally they line up with the household guard, and run through a series of uniform movements. Sansa stops to watch, as they brandish their shields and weighted wooden swords in unison. The sweeping movements are akin to a dance, graceful in a way.  
   
With her sewing basket firm in hand, she makes her way down to the yard. Bran’s usual seat affords an excellent view. She knows when Theon catches sight of her, because his stance broadens, and he throws her a sweat-drenched smile. It is attractive, the way his pale rose-gold hair slicks across his forehead, dark and damp. His skin would be hot, she thinks, and then fumbles for an unfinished handkerchief to distract herself with.  
   
She sits for an acceptable amount of time, until they are all used to her presence. When they are no longer interested, she darts away. Bran’s favourite seat has the advantage of being directly in front of an entrance to the kitchens. Sansa sneaks in, quiet and quick. Her success in the library has made her daring. She doesn’t feel guilty when she swipes the blueberry tarts; they’re to be eaten by her family anyway. The portly cook that catches her, does nothing more than shake her head in exasperation. Sansa offers her a bashful smile but no explanation, as she hurries back to her abandoned basket.  
   
Theon gives her a look; letting her know he noticed her absence. _Because he notices me now,_ Sansa realises. _I intrigue him._ She does not know how to deal with this news, so she disregards it. Her loot safely nestled amid scrap fabric, she checks over her gifts, and just in time. The men separate with sighs and groans of exertion, seeking water skins.  
   
Unbothered by the audience, Theon strips off his tunic and undershirt. His chest is hairless, well-defined and soaked with sweat. Sansa stares as he gulps down water. The ripple of his throat is unaccountably interesting. She is rooted to her spot, half-sprung into action, her basket dangling precariously in her loose grip. The look he throws her is blatantly flirtatious, when he catches her gawking. It involves a wink.  
   
Sansa shakes herself, but not before Robb takes notice. He follows Theon’s diverted attention to find Sansa standing rigid, with flaming cheeks, biting her lip. His curly head swivels between them, blue eyes blown wide in incredulity. Sansa charges forwards, desperate to rectify the situation before he can make a scene.  
   
“Jon!” She calls, stopping her brother who was beginning to slink away. As he always does, if Robb and Theon are being too boisterous together. She offers him the butter-soft brown leather gloves she has made for him, with Ghost embroidered on both wrist coverings. Jon doesn’t hesitate to accept this time, though he cannot yet appreciate the sentimentality of the embroidery.  
   
She quickly digs in her basket for her other offerings. The exact same is passed to Robb, through Grey Wind is of course sewn in gleaming silvery grey. The golden krakens on Theon’s dark green gloves were the hardest, with their delicate tentacles. Sansa worked hard to make them as accurate as possible. The boys examine their new gloves and offer their thanks, while Sansa beams. She knows the men tidying the training yard are watching her treat them all the same, showing no deference to Robb.  
  
“Walk me back to my rooms?” Sansa the asks, offering her lordly big brother a wide smile. To refuse after a gift would be very poor form. So with a longing look at the water skins, he nods. She smothers a laugh.  
  
“I will permit you a drink first, brave ser!” She japes, and Theon is the first to chuckle.  
  
She sees Robb physically shake off his doubts; likely convincing himself he did not see what he initially believed. It will be easier for him, to ignore such a thing. Until it is as though he has willed it out of existence. Sansa will do nothing to dissuade him from that. A dalliance with Theon is futile. Her parents will never permit a match, and it offers no political advantage. She must marry to secure the loyalty of the North.  
  
Sufficiently watered, Robb offers his arm, and Sansa takes it daintily. She comports herself with dignity, as always, but no longer obsesses over being recognised as a lady. Gone is the naïve girl who cared only for courtly love, sweet songs of fair maidens and handsome princes. Not that most of her family have noticed. Robb still treats her kindly, as he always did. He was the least likely to make japes at her expense, and always consented to play knights and maidens with her. He was her knight in shining armour, regardless of his sword being only a wooden one. Sansa had always loved him best, for these reasons. They seem so shallow now; Robb is responsible, attentive, clever with a great mind of strategy. There are better reasons to adore him than her girlish appreciation of his pandering.  
  
When they reach their destination, she invites him in to take some rest. Robb eyes her, slightly puzzled, but agrees. Safely inside, she reveals her bounty, and his compliance becomes much more willing. Blueberry tarts have ever been Robb’s favourite, and these are still warm. Having removed them from prying eyes, Sansa has ensured he doesn’t have to share them with Jon and Theon. She giggles as he moans in pleasure, having worked up a fierce hunger drilling his footwork.  
  
She only takes one pastry for herself. They are sweet with a hint of tartness; lovely in small doses but too sour for her to ever enjoy an excess. She much prefers the over-sugared lemoncakes. Robb adores the sharper treat, and greedily gobbles them up. Now she has him, having provided both nourishment and protection for his fingers from the icy weather.  
   
He is powerless to refuse, when she brandishes her contraband, and pleads for him to teach her about sums.  
  
*  
  
Sansa no more trills about tragic separations and brave tourney knights in the South. But she still enjoys stories as much as all her siblings. Old Nan’s scary tales from Beyond the Wall are a favourite of Bran’s. Sansa peppers her with questions, and the elderly woman indulges her.  
  
A summer storm has confined them to the family wing, swapping tales. Old Nan is extremely ancient, and eventually falls asleep. Thus the children take it upon themselves to entertain one another. Rickon is keen to waddle about the room, having recently mastered walking, and is fascinated by Jon’s dark curls. One too many sharp tugs find him scooped up into Sansa’s warm arms. Thankfully, her red hair is a fine enough substitute, and he settles on her lap without much fuss.  
  
She largely ignores the others, in favour of cherishing time with her littlest brother. But after one of Arya’s warrior princess stories, Sansa steers the talk away from dragon women. She is unfavourably reminded of the wrathful Targaryen would-be queen. She requests a story of the Long Night, the Last Hero, and Bran the Builder.  
  
That leads to boasting between the boys, all named after glorious Kings; the innumerable Brandons, the courageous Jon Stark who drove out raiders and built the Wolf’s Den. And the most recent addition to legend, Robert Baratheon, whom Robb recounts with a grizzly retelling of the Battle of the Trident, the blood and rubies spilling beneath his mighty Warhammer.   
   
“Who is your namesake, Theon?” Bran chirps, with big curious eyes.  
   
Theon winces, struck silent. What can he say? Sansa well knows his patchy accounts of legendary Ironborn. She bristles against the unintended humiliation. This kind of ousting will not do at all. Theon must be folded into the family, not pushed from it.  
  
“Theon Stark defeated Argos Sevenstar in the Battle of the Weeping Water.” Sansa begins, dutifully reciting the tale from memory, elaborating on the gory details; “He then tied Argos’ rotted corpse to the prow of his ship like a carved figurehead, so everyone could see his victory against the Andals. King Theon ravaged the Andal invader’s villages, killing almost a thousand men and women. Then his men placed spikes all along the coast, and displayed all their heads. So that any other would-be invaders could see what awaited them, if they thought to attack the North.  
  
He was a fearsome commander and a great warrior; his people nearly starved during the constant war of his reign, which is why his statue in the crypts is so gaunt. He was a King of Winter, but everyone called him the Hungry Wolf.”  
  
Bran claps in delight, thrilled. Theon was staring at her in awe, and appreciation. She had included him in their nostalgic tales of a more brutal North, sewing him into the tapestry of their family.  
  
“That makes no sense,” Arya naturally ruins the moment, consistently tactless. “Theon wouldn’t be named after him, because he’s not a Stark.”  
   
Sansa watches with a detached sort of horror as the grin is wiped clean from Theon’s face. This is how you estrange someone, she thinks. With casual disregard. Each careless comment stone upon stone, until you have built a wall betwixt allies.  
   
“Don’t be stupid, Arya.” She snaps, furious that all her efforts could be ruined in one fell swoop. “Of course he is.”  
   
All eyes are on her now, Jon and Robb with scepticism, Theon with shock. Bran and Arya just look confused, and Rickon is entirely occupied with her hair, clutching it in a tight fist as he stares up at her chin.  
   
“Theon is as much Stark, as he is Greyjoy.” Sansa posits, “Just as Father is an Arryn, yet brother to a Baratheon King. Blood and birthplace alone doesn’t make you who you are. Where you grow into maturity is more important, and the people you grow alongside. The family you cherish.” Sansa insists.  
   
“But Theon has his own family-” Arya pipes up again, confused.  
   
“Obviously.” Sansa scoffs, “And what of it? We have kin in the Riverlands, cousins in the Karstarks, and our Aunt Lysa in the far South. A woman we have never even met. Should we feel more love for them than we do Theon, who shares our home and hearth?”  
   
She sniffs dismissively, a perfect parody of the girl she used to be. Theon looks like a man recovering from an unexpected blow, blinking rapidly in stupefaction. Robb seems utterly charmed, a lopsided smile growing across his face with her every scathing comment. Jon is frowning. It is difficult for him to adapt his notions, Sansa knows better than anyone. His understanding of family and honour is very strict. He is more of a Tully than she ever was, always putting family and duty first.  
   
“Neither Robb or Jon were born in the North. It doesn’t make them any less our brothers.” Sansa concludes, “The same is true for Theon.”  
   
There is nothing anyone can say to that. Robb would never call Theon anything less. Jon is far less convinced, but perhaps her mention of father helped, as he doesn’t seem entirely sceptical. Theon swallows thickly, his eyes suspiciously moist.  
   
*


	7. Arya

THE STUBBORN TRAVELLER

Sansa was being weird. She had always been stupid and full of awful mean japes with her horrible friends, but now she was even worse. Because she was only pretending to be nice. No one else could see through Sansa's fakery, but Arya knew. She had not yet found a way to prove it, but Arya saw it to be true anyway.

Sansa was only happy when people were praising her. And simultaneously rubbing Arya's face in how she would never be perfect like Sansa. Jon was convinced that Sansa was maturing, turning chivalrous compassion on her family, like some charitable lady from a song. But Arya knew it would not last. Before long, Sansa would revert to her usual spiteful self. And Arya would be there to remind everyone how foolish they were, to have believed in Sansa's falsehoods.


	8. Sansa IV

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa has not forgotten her foes; the enemies of all men of conscience. Magical monsters with fearsome powers can seem like an insurmountable issue. But human men are flesh and blood, and can be cut down. And Ramsay Bolton needed to be dealt with as soon as feasible. Ideally before he reached maturity, and stepped into power. There must be some crime she can have her father investigate. The Boltons would always continue their foul practices, regardless of their liege lord’s orders. Of that, Sansa could be certain.  
   
But her family were not frequent guests at the Dreadfort. Sansa had visited once, but she did not recall anyone drawing attention to Lord Bolton’s bastard. No doubt Ramsay had been skulking in the shadows, imagining all the foul things he wished to do to them. Later attempting to slake his insatiable bloodlust, by torturing the smallfolk. People that would not be missed. So long as Roose Bolton ignored his son’s penchant for violence, and indulged in his own sickening practices, no one would be brave enough to hold them to account. No one save her lord father, shored up by the protection of his bannermen. But how could Sansa force such an occurrence to take place?  
   
Fury wars with pity in Sansa’s heart. The Bolton servants are assuredly suffering needlessly. But it is fear that seizes her bones. If the Northmen cannot unite in a time of peace, there is no hope for them. For when winter comes, the dead will walk. She cannot encourage a war within the North, between Winterfell and the Dreadfort. The Bolton men have no reason yet to turn against the savage cruelty of their lord. The North would bleed, and look weak and unstable compared to the other realms.

It is listening to Beth and Jeyne’s idle chatter that the bolt of inspiration comes to her. They are talking of marriable men in the North, a common topic, but they mention an eligible lord Sansa had completely forgotten existed. How she could have been so stupid and oblivious, she does not know. Domeric Bolton still lives. A trueborn heir, with a stalwart reputation. Fostered in the Vale, no less, and probably on the road home by now. She cannot recall the incident surrounding his death, but knowing Ramsay, he probably had a hand in it.

What could it hurt to ask after Domeric? To press her parents to invite him to Winterfell, and tell them of his adventures? Sansa does so at the first moment she has command of their attention. Her mother seems amused and knowing, Father baffled but intrigued. Mayhaps he wants news from the place he himself was once fostered. To be reminded of his carefree days, or to learn from a first-hand account how the lands of the Vale have changed.

Father duly wrote to Lord Bolton, and though the Leech Lord was reluctant, he could not refuse, having no justification. It should be considered a great honour, that his liege lord views a bannerman’s son as a trustworthy source of information. A feast to celebrate his return as a knight, held in a Lord Paramount’s hall, is no small feat. Domeric also accepts their invitation. He sends a gracious letter of his own, detailing his expected arrival.

They are informed one morning that Domeric will join them between five and six moons, depending on the weather. He has indeed been knighted, and is a solid jouster and swordsman, who apparently plays the harp. Theon and Robb share twin looks of contempt, but Jon seems interested. Jon is more concerned with honour than anyone else, even Father, and thus Southern sentiments of chivalry are more fascinating to him. Sansa sincerely hopes that Domeric is the kind of man who will not be cruel to Jon, for his perceived bastardy.

Bran is the most delighted, as he has continued to cling to his dream of being a knight. Sansa immediately sees her folly, when Bran begins to talk of nothing but squiring for the man. How ever will she now persuade him that the Riverlands, and Uncle Brynden, is the better choice? Experience counts for little with someone so young. Bran cares more that Domeric is a Northman, a knight who follows the Old Gods. Therefore the perfect knight, according to Bran. The idea does have its merits; it will bring fostering into her father’s mind. Roose would not dare harm Bran while Father lived, knowing it would bring the might of the North upon him. And the Dreadfort is not half so far from home.

She knows not how to dissuade Bran, nor if it would be right of her to do so. Sansa will do everything in her power to ensure he never falls, but she cannot be with him at all hours. It would be better if she could ensure the King and his retinue never come North. However, saving Jon Arryn is a feat she doubts she could accomplish. All the ravens in the North will not convince the extremely logical, dutiful Warden of the East, to set aside his wife in fear of his life. Not on the word of a stranger. And if Lord Arryn did somehow free himself from Aunt Lysa, Sansa has no doubt Lord Baelish would deploy some other agent. It is decidedly not her place to bring chaos to the Seven Kingdoms by uncovering the plot, or claiming herself to be some form of oracle, predicting the future. She has no desire to ever capture the attention of Littlefinger in this life. If she stays far away from all his schemes and plans, she might never have to deal with his unwanted advances again.

But that does not provide any solution to her predicament. Ramsay lives in the bowels of the Dreadfort. Could she ever forgive herself, if Bran became the object of his fixation? Would Roose be able to dissuade him, when tales of Stark skin cloaks were well known? That temptation would be too much for Ramsay, she expects. He would have to taste some of that glory for himself.

Mayhaps she should focus on sending Arya away. If all goes wrong, and the King wishes to take them South, it would save her. It is Arya who is not built for courtly intrigue, and she deserves to stay here. Sansa knows just who is capable of protecting her. Bear Island is fiercely loyal and strong. Lyanna Mormont would be an excellent companion to wild Arya; a subdued, dutiful, tough girl. Arya was charmed with the Mormont women, and Sansa reminds her father of such. She asks Maester Luwin why fostering has fallen out of favour in the North, with specific examples of young ladies sent as handmaidens. She trusts the two men will eventually work themselves into the correct concluding corner.

But that doesn’t crack her problem of endangering sweet Bran. She watches his first series of swordplay lessons, the wooden sword sagging in his hands, too heavy for him to heft. Will Domeric even consent to take him? Her brother is too young to squire, more suited to be a page. A position lacking glory, but the first step to knighthood. Then she feels it, like a strike to the flesh. How her plans may combine. She flies to Jon’s room, as though her heels had caught aflame.

*

Jon is always happy to see her now. Sansa gifts him with all her large projects. Having recently added a blood red jerkin, the colour of Dornish wine, and a matching cloak edged in red fox fur, to his wardrobe. Mother had turned pale, thin-lipped and furious, when he first wore it. The blue tunic could easily be concealed, as undershirts naturally are, in a realm where layers are always necessary. Not so with a cloak. But Mother could hardly take the clothes from Jon’s back. Sansa is still angry that there was part of her lady mother that clearly wanted to scream at Jon to remove it, and stop daring to dress as a lord.

Sansa shakes away her idle thoughts. She cannot explain her scheme to Jon exactly, but he now trusts her enough to listen to her idea.

“Bran is far too young to squire,” she explains, “And Mother will be reluctant to let him go. You know how she babies him.”

Jon nods, reluctant to speak against Lady Stark, yet he will not contradict his sister’s statement either.

“Father would worry also. The past enmity between the Starks and Boltons is well known. Mayhaps he might think Bran would not be accorded the respect he deserves.” Sansa muses, though Father would never consider such a thing.

Ned Stark was a man who found it difficult to understand that others lacked his sense of honour. Which is what ultimately lead him along the path to the destruction of his own House.

“So you wish me to speak to Bran? To keep him from raising up his hopes?” Jon guesses. He looks reluctant to contemplate such a task. It would be a horrible thing, to be the one to subdue Bran’s innocent smiles. It is a good suggestion, but not what Sansa desires anymore.

“Nay,” she announces, “I wish for you to accompany him.”

Jon goes rigid with surprise. Or mayhaps, he believes she wants rid of him. Sansa reaches out and grasps his fingers with her own.

“Father will not worry over him, if he knows Bran will be watched over by you. He understands how well you love us all, that he would be safe with you to protect him.”

Jon is not convinced, she can easily see.

“It would insult Lord Bolton, for Lord Stark to request he take in his bastard.” He whispers, ashamed.

Sansa bites her lip in agitation. She should have anticipated this. Jon was a martyr for his honour; he considered himself a stain upon Ned Stark’s. A blemish that could only be scrubbed out by earning glory in the Night’s Watch.

“Bastards have a reputation they do not deserve. You certainly do not deserve it.” She squeezes his hand between both of hers. “Any household would be lucky to have you as a guard, Jon. And Bran couldn’t hope for a more loyal, loving protector.”

Jon mulls the idea over, grey eyes skittering across her face, teeth chewing on his lips. “Do you truly think Father would agree?”

“Assuredly!” Sansa exclaims, “And Lord Bolton might be more accommodating than you think. He has a natural son of his own, you know. He lives in the Dreadfort with his family, just as you live with us.”

This is not true; Sansa knows little of Ramsay’s upbringing, but she doubts it was anything akin to Jon’s life alongside her. Respected and taught beside trueborn siblings. Roose Bolton was not a warm or loving man, he was cold-blooded.

Ramsay was kept in the North when Bolton banners rode to war with Robb. That is not the action of a man proud of his child, but of a strategist who had left his son behind, in case he could press his advantage with the North undefended. A calculated move that came to fruition when they were installed as Wardens after Robb’s death.

Jon doesn’t seem any more familiar with Ramsay than any of them were, before Roose unleashed him. Sansa explains away her knowledge, by claiming servant’s gossip. Once the announcement about Domeric’s arrival had been made, it truly set tongues wagging regarding all things Bolton. She just adds a few details that were never made. It might not yet be enough to sway Jon, who promises to consider her proposal. But only if Bran remains determined to follow Domeric. It all depends on the knight being worthy enough to follow. And there is no way for Sansa to have any insight on that.

*

Robb and Sansa have never shared many lessons. They were the eldest of their Father’s trueborn, but their lessons diverged when they were still very small. Though Sansa is the eldest daughter of lord, and Robb a lord to be, she is expected to marry a vassal lord, whereas Robb will become a Lord Paramount. Those duties are very different. Running a household and tenants is not comparable to running an entire Kingdom on behalf of the crown. There is a reason why Mother has so many responsibilities, and it is because Father trusts her with Winterfell, when he needs focus on the North as a whole.

Sansa has only really shared dancing lessons with Robb. Being the only noble girl similar in age, they learnt the steps together. They remain partners, when memories must be refreshed before important feasts. Now, he shows nothing of the guidance he had, when they were being directed in tandem. Robb is frankly a terrible teacher.

Robb attempts to point out patterns, frustrated when she cannot see them. He makes leaps with his understanding of the ancient accounts, that he cannot explain nor untangle. They are working to follow the life of Winterfell in the time of Father’s grandfather, Lord Edwyle. When taxes were apparently high, and there was a regrettable lack of sheep. All according to Robb. Sansa does not see it herself, and it is only the despair on her face that has Robb rubbing her shoulders soothingly, and vowing to slow down.

They go over basic numbers, setting aside the complex records. Robb explains what each household levy in the North owes Winterfell and the King. It is only after he explains their duty to the Night’s Watch, that he frowns and mumbles about the lack of supplies sent from the South. Sansa helpfully points out that if the North is sending more than their share, it means their people are suffering unduly, due to a dearth of food. Robb declares their lesson done, and marches off to find Father, without much more of an explanation. Sansa smiles to herself, as she tucks the stolen book back into its hiding place.

She may not have achieved her goal in truth, but Robb questioning the South’s commitment to the Night’s Watch can only be a good thing. Especially if it forces Father to have a frank exchange of letters with the current Lord Commander. Their duty to the Wall is an urgent one.

*

When the news comes from White Harbour, Sansa can’t quite believe it. Nothing like this ever happened in her past life, she is sure of it. No one save for grizzled sailors who had travelled far had ever seen a kraken. Those men were not believed. It was supposedly a deep ocean ghoul, the sigil of Theon’s House; a foul, fearsome monstrosity, with a huge head and long lashing arms, like whips with teeth. There had ever been reports of a live one seen reaping the land or harbour, but that could never be verified.

And now apparently Lord Manderly had a dead one in his hall, bought from a sea merchant who dragged it aboard. Not bloated pieces of indistinguishable flesh, washed ashore, or strange seaweed arranged to look frightening. An entire intact carcass, with a head and tentacles and one giant waxy eye.

The Stark children are all equally fascinated and disturbed by the tales of this fleshy pink head, and the pale pliable arms. The single eye is said to be revolting. Theon is savagely pleased, to be vindicated in the nightmarish tales he used to tell, to frighten them when they were small. Jon had always been dismissive, so spends much of the announcement staring at Theon in horror.

They beg Father to go. Manderly has had the creature salted, but intends to pickle it and keep it in his Mermaid’s hall. Theon is not the only one who longs to see it before its skin is tainted. Days of whining after Father, and bringing up the mysterious monster in all conversations, gains results. Father will hear not one more word about it. They will pack up their things and be on the road in two days, and the first one to complain about the driven journey will be sent home immediately.

Sansa has no intention of being that unlucky soul. Her riding lessons certainly come in handy, as Father’s pace is relentless. They careen across the land, hooves kicking up chunks of dirt and tufts of grass. Sansa oft finds herself riding beside Theon. Shrieking with laughter, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy, as they race along the road. What greater symbol of freedom could there be than this? Sansa’s horse, a charger borrowed from a guard left behind, leaps confidently over stones and tussocks. She ignores Robb’s barked orders to slow down.

Arya glares at her from Bran’s slow pony, her brother riding in front of Jory, too young to undertake such a long journey alone. Only Mother and Rickon stayed behind, her youngest brother unable to gain much from the viewing, and Mother uninterested in viewing the monster. Sansa is glad for it, as Jon’s smiles are always quicker and broader, when Mother is nowhere to be found.

She quickly forgets there is an objective to their excursion. Slowing to trot beside Robb and Jon, for once she is included in their japes. Robb does an impression of Lyonel, who got drunk and fell from his bench at the tavern. Jon laughs, but makes no attempt as his own impersonation. Sansa sits higher in the saddle.

“Guess who I am!” She demands, then screws up her face into a pinched expression. “Boys! Are you men or ruffians! Do you think the Warrior calls such beasts into his service?”

They erupt into laughter, her rasping words a wonderful approximation of Septa Mordane’s irritated tone.

Robb wipes a tear from his face. “That was brilliant! Just so.”

Sansa flushes with pride, a happy smile blooming on her lips. She casts a look over her shoulder, her red hair curling into the nape of her emerald green cloak, damp with exertion. Theon is watching her, as he keeps pace with Lord Cerwyn’s weaselly son, who met them on the road.

She pretends she doesn’t understand the longing in his heated gaze.

*

There have been reports of unusually deep summer snows further North, where Umber lands border Roose Bolton’s territory. It was a ready excuse for those declining to attend Bran’s celebrations. And yet the Merman’s Court is full to the brim of curious men and women, a roaring rabble of voices making it difficult to hear even Robb, who is sitting directly next to her.

“I still think the Mermaid’s Hall would be a more fitting name,” Sansa muses, but without the disdain of her past cutting comments.

“It’s a lord’s court!” Robb chides, but evidently Theon heard and agreed with her, because he leans over the table in an uncouth manner, and hollers;

“She’s right, Robb! Just look at all those sodden wenches.”

Theon swept his arm in a wobbly arc, narrowly avoiding sloshing mead over Wynafryd Manderly. The girl glared at him, but he paid her no mind. Sansa hoped her grin was hidden by her hair, as she ducked down to cut another piece of her lamprey pie. It was a strange day indeed, when Theon Greyjoy did not endeavour to endear every girl in the vicinity to favour him. He catches her eye, mischievous grin firmly in place.

“Have a care, Theon,” Robb sighs, no doubt for the rude comment hidden in Theon’s words, as much for the reckless manner of his movement. “Your Hall is very beautiful, my lady,” He continues, directing himself to the eldest granddaughter of the Fat Merman Lord.

“Thank you, my lord,” She purrs in reply, beneath a flush Sansa suspected was entirely fake. Wynafryd seemed like a clever minx, full of flattery and sweet maidenly virtue, coating hidden schemes. She’s another Margaery Tyrell, Sansa thinks uncharitably, playing at being kind, but always out to gain something for her House. Robb ought to be careful, else he’d be returning to Winterfell a betrothed man.

Not that Sansa will allow it, of course. She has been contemplating a way to instigate a betrothal between Robb and House Frey. Getting that treacherous old lecher, Walder Frey, to feel indebted to House Stark for raising up his family. Making one of his daughters the future Lady of a Lord Paramount, would surely guarantee his support far sooner, in the coming wars. Especially if the deal were long struck, his daughter already installed in Winterfell. Mayhaps even with a babe? But these might yet be the fancies of a girl. It troubles Sansa, but it seems wasteful to her, for Robb to be pushed toward Alys Karstark or a Mormont.

Father has never shown any interest in betrothing Robb, though offers must have come, once his heir survived infancy. It seems like their lord father is not yet capable of seeing them as growing young people. The doll Father gifted her in Kings Landing, proves he will yet feel that way for many years to come. Sansa releases her frustration with an exaggerated exhale. The Merman’s Court is beautiful, every interlocked wooden crevice painted, all manner of sea creatures mingling amongst deep blue-green waves, with a fearsome battle betwixt kraken and leviathan on the wall behind Wyman Manderly’s giant cushioned throne. Part of the thrashing tail of the leviathan is obscured by Theon’s head. And the beautiful, haunting faces of mermaids peer out from every shadowed crevice.

The Starks are naturally seated at a place of honour, the highest table, slightly below the dais of the throne. Wyman is chuckling loudly, and quaffing ale with Father, who looks mildly alarmed by the miniature tidal wave each time Lord Manderly drinks. Were Mother here, Jon and Theon would no doubt have been placed elsewhere. Jon with the servants, Theon with the lesser Houses. Instead, Jon is happily sandwiched between Bran and Arya, who are very pleased not to have to engage in conversation with Wylla Manderly, who is on Sansa’s other side.

  
Would that Sansa could retreat into conversation with Robb. Instead she remembers her courtly lessons well. She politely enquires after the favoured activities of the ladies of White Harbour. She tries her absolute best to keep her gaze on Wylla’s sparkling eyes, and ignore her garish, vomit-inducing hair colour. Why any girl would favour green, Sansa could not imagine. She takes a moment to picture herself with dark purple hair, or perhaps a bright sunny yellow. Something playful and beautiful. Not a shade roughly the colour of the fungus that grew on men’s feet, if they stayed shod in wet boots for too long.

Lord Manderly has dragged out the unveiling of his creature so long that there have been many grumblings about deception. The Stark household had only arrived three nights ago, though there are some who have been here almost a fortnight. Apparently, they were under the impression that the Warden of the North was the guest of honour they were waiting for. Many are sour this was not the case, regardless of the obscene amount of food, mead, ale and wine on display every night. Sansa watches Theon gorge himself on seafood like a starved waif, and decides then and there she will discover his favourite dishes, and pretend they are her own. The Manderlys are famously loyal to the Starks; they will provide recipes and ship the ingredients, of that she has no doubt. She remembers all to well, what it was to never eat the food of your Kingdom, and wish, just for one night, to enjoy the comforts of home.

Apparently, the special guest they have been waiting for has arrived, as Wyman Manderly roars his intention to bring out the beast shortly. But first, a final addition to their ranks. The doors open to permit a man recently dressed for dinner, his hair still wet from cleaning away the dirt of travel. Sansa sits rigid in her seat, as she claims her first glimpse of Domeric Bolton, a man grown. Her heart makes an uncomfortable thump, and she wonders if this dark-haired, lithe stranger is to be her future husband.

*


	9. Wylla

THE LONELY TRAVELLER

Her home was full of strangers. But she saw the opportunity for what it was. A chance to find a husband from the most eligible bachelors the North had to offer. If would be easier if Grandfather stopped sabotaging her likelihood for a good match with his embarrassing tomfoolery. But his behaviour wouldn't stop her from achieving her goal. Wylla had already made up her mind to secure a match for herself before this year's end.

There were those who might say she was beastly for trying to get herself betrothed before her elder sister. But Wylla's situation was rare. She was her father's spare heir, and she had long grown weary of being surrounded by men who sought to control her House through her or her sister, whilst belittling her every action. She had to get away from White Harbour's stifling atmosphere as quickly as she could manage. This might be her only chance, and Wylla was going to utilise it accordingly.

No man, not even her loving Grandfather, was going to get in her way.


	10. Sansa V

THE LONE TRAVELLER  
  
Sansa had tried not to imagine the foul appearance of the kraken. She couldn’t help but worry that its death was an omen, much like the direwolf killed by a stag. Though no one could understand it at the time, retrospectively, its meaning was clear. Robert Baratheon gored her family, when he demanded Father join him in King’s Landing. The stag too had been killed by the mother she-wolf, Sansa recalled. The Baratheon line had been destroyed entirely in the time Sansa came from. Part of the blame for that could be laid at Father’s feet. He could have staged a coup during Robert’s dying hours, caging the lions and calling Stannis to King’s Landing to take his throne. Honour stilled his hand, and cost him his head. Everyone ignored the direwolf omen. Sansa would not overlook this new message from the gods.  
  
That it was a message for House Greyjoy was obvious. But what exactly? Perhaps the manner of the creature’s death would reveal it. She had to hope it was not foreshadowing the total destruction of Theon’s House. She had no desire to lose him, and did not wish him to lose his other family. No matter how distasteful Mother insisted Theon’s father was, whoever replaced him could be far worse. A man trying to prove himself is a dangerous thing, Sansa knew. Both Joffrey and Ramsay had been insecure boys, desperate to cow everyone into believing they were strong.  
  
She had been so focused on the kraken, she clean forgot to dwell on Domeric Bolton. Once he arrived, it seemed obvious he would meet them here. He had travelled partly by boat to see the spectacle in White Harbour on his way home. But thoughts of his journey had been far from her mind during their own. It had been wonderous to travel the North, with a welcoming destination at the close. So little time of her life had been spent out of doors. She’d never hunted with the boys, who got to stay in the wolfswood and sleep under the stars. It had been a lovely novelty, to explore her new riding skills and spend time with her brothers on the road. Consequently, she had given Domeric little thought. Now Sansa felt wrong-footed and under-prepared for confronting him.  
  
Her first impressions were pleasant enough. He was a man of much height, broad in the shoulder but still thin. He had long dark hair, lightly curled, and blue eyes, from what she could gather at a distance. The heir to the Deadfort bows stiffly but deeply to Lord Wyman, before joining the Ryswell contingent, on the far side of the Hall. Naturally, Sansa realised. She foolishly expected him to join the Starks. But logically, he would sit with his mother’s kin. They had been separated for many years during his squiring. He probably missed them fiercely, if he felt anything for his family the way Sansa felt for her own. If she had ever escaped King’s Landing while her mother and brothers lived, she would have wanted to be with them over all others. The circumstances were not truly alike, but enough that Sansa could sympathise.  
  
She doesn’t stop herself from seeking him out with her eyes, even as the fat Lord began to postulate on the kraken’s life and death, and generally pontificate. She follows his dark head across the hall, pretending not to notice Theon watching her. Domeric’s stride is purposeful and poised. She guesses he would be a proficient dancer. Thoroughly distracted, Sansa tunes out Lord Manderly’s endless droning. She is not alone. Arya, despite her glee at finally getting to see the monster, laid her head upon the table. Sansa only notices, when her sister begins to snore. Horrified, Sansa hisses at Jon.

The useless boy only snorts with laughter, finally poking Arya awake after several long minutes. Their sister sits up, groaning, scrubbing a hand through her nest of tangled hair with a glare. One of her sleeves had trailed through her soup, and she carries a stream of it across the tabletop. Bran sniggers into his fist, but Sansa is mortified. Mother would be so embarrassed, were she there. Wynafryd and Wylla both eye Arya with a mixture of contempt and humiliation. They know their grandfather is similarly boring the other guests into an early grave.

  
Thankfully, the incident inspires Wynafryd to deliver them. She bounds from her seat, thanking her lord for his wise words, leading the room into a toast. Lord Wyman looks startled to be interrupted, then smiles, blinking stupidly. It is clear his speech wasn’t done, but Wynafryd is merciless. She roars for the kraken to be wheeled in before he can say another word. The guests straighten from their slouches, slamming their goblets into the tables, a drumbeat that thrums throughout the room.  
  
The Starks wait with baited breath, as Manderly men push in a cart, longer than it is wide. It is specially designed for the singular purpose of housing the prize. The thick wood was painted green and gilded with gold. Those sat at the top table were the first invited forward. Theon leaps to his feet, somehow at Sansa’s side before she can properly shake out her skirts and stand. He offers her his elbow. She takes it, surprised when he lays his opposite hand atop hers. Their siblings move forwards without them, but Sansa stays rooted in place. She looks up at Theon, her hair falling back away from her face. He is far taller than her. His gaze is unsettled, something frantic and frail in those murky, watery depths. Father steps down from his seat on the dais beside Lord Manderly, and snaps Sansa from her daze. She drags Theon forwards, his feet still planted firmly as she begins to charge forward. He quickly matches her pace, using his spare elbow to push Robb aside. They peer into the long box together.  
  
The beast is hideous. Pink flesh ranging from salmon-bright, to so pale it is almost white in places. Its body was entirely head, and enormous. Easily the side of a man, yet far wider. (Unless that man was Lord Manderly). The eye alone is humungous. Robb demonstrates, by holding his two hands over it, one above the other. The rim can still be seen above his topmost fingertips. The head is somewhat shaped like an upturned pear. The outer edges are thinner than the robust centre, almost fin-like. Its body is far bigger in comparison to the eight slimy tentacles, than the Greyjoy sigil on Theon’s chest would suggest. Bran’s hair bounces, as he constantly swivels between the golden depiction, and the true animal.  
  
The two arms with bulbous hands are particularly long, wrapped around the creature’s body. They have been nailed into the edges of the box, to prevent tangling. The tentacles are covered in curious circles, and a Manderly guard leans in to poke one, and point out the hooks nestled beside. It is quite awful, and Sansa is very glad of Theon’s arm to cling to, keeping her steady.  
  
Father and Jon are frowning at it with equally furrowed brows, but Robb seems delighted. He pokes at a tentacle and lets out a theatrical cry of disgust. Sansa casts a worried look upon Theon, to see if he is offended by Robb’s jape. But Theon seems entranced with the creature. He is taking note of nothing else. Maester Luwin is the only one who seems to match him, cataloguing every detail with academic curiosity.  
  
“It’s a bit small,” Arya whines, completely absurd. The beast could easily have eaten her up, had it been alive.  
  
“Aye,” agrees the lad who had helpfully pointed out the claws. “Maester Theomore suspects it might be a cub.”  
  
“I doubt that was the term he used,” Maester Luwin argues, but nods in agreement. “But I do believe it may be a young, juvenile specimen.”  
  
“How did he die?” asks Theon, unusually solemn. No playful smile in place to deflect the tension from his words.  
  
“I would need to examine the creature at length,” Luwin starts, “Although that is really Maester Theomore’s place-”  
  
“I don’t understand how he got here?” Theon interrupts, speaking a little too fast. “How was it found?"  
  
The Manderly guard shrugs, clearly unmoved by Theon’s worry. “The merchant said it washed ashore, and he happened to be first to reach it. He didn’t know if it would fetch a good price here, but said they always do in Sothroyos, according to him. It will be an excellent addition this great court.”  
  
“Lord Manderly intends to display it here?” Father asks sternly. He has never been a man to mount his kills, the way Southern houses did. Still, the Manderlys originated in the Reach, and were forgiven all manner of oddities due to their Andal blood.  
  
Theon looks altogether queasy as the guard explains Lord Wyman’s intention to pry up some of the wooden planking in the floor and install the box. They will pickle the creature below a wall of glass, so that people may stand and look upon it.  
  
“It’s not right.” The Ironborn boy protests, “Though if it washed ashore the Drowned God may have rejected it.” He shakes his head, puzzling over the issue.  
  
“Krakens belong in the sea.” Theon eventually declares, reaching out his free hand to gently brush one of the many tentacles.  
  
Sansa squeezes his arm in solidarity. She had never laid eyes upon Lady’s dead body. Although Theon had no bond with the kraken babe, the thought of her lost direwolf was enough to allow Sansa some insight. They took their fill of the mysterious beast quietly from then on. Robb watches Theon with concern, and cannot seem to help himself from glancing at where Sansa’s pale hand is tucked into his friend’s arm. Then Father ushers them away, so that others might have their chance to look upon it.  
  
Arya declares the kraken to be hideous and entirely without merit, but everyone else seems pleased to have seen such a rare sight for themselves. Even Theon, who placed his hand upon the monster’s bulging head, and whispered an unfamiliar prayer over it.  
  
When Sansa presses him about it later, huddling close, Theon explains that he prayed the soul of the creature found its way to the Drowned God’s halls, even if its flesh was caged.  
  
*  
  
Sansa does not meet Domeric Bolton officially until the next day, at luncheon. She and the other Starks had been exploring the city after breaking their fast. At first they trailed around together, in a large party with their guards. That way they learnt the lay of the stalls, and what lovely things were available to purchase. Then they were each given an allowance of silver from Father. They were to buy a single trinket for themselves. The remainder, should there be any, could be spent on foreign treats and drinks in the marketplace.  
  
As soon as her siblings began to chatter excitedly over their intended purchases, Sansa pressed her money into Theon’s hands. She begged him to buy her a jewelled Tyrosh dagger. There had been a stall filled with the beautiful curved blades, the pommels and sheaths glittering with different combinations of emeralds, diamonds, amethysts and rubies. He took the leather pouch from her swiftly, hiding the transaction with ease.  
  
“Is there any particular specimen that my lady desires?” He had purred, and Sansa had blushed.

She mentioned a blue and green dagger. It had laid towards the outer edge of the table, on a purple velvet cushion. Dutifully, Theon had bought it for her, muttering that he would find a way to pass it to her at dinner. She intended to conceal it in her luggage.  
  
Sansa felt very stupid at luncheon, when the others began to shown off their wares, and she was empty handed.  
  
“Didn’t you find anything pretty enough, Sansa?” Arya sneers, brandishing her Lysene finger-trap. Bran is currently stuck in the wooden contraption, and quite unable to shake it off. Jon reaches over and releases the catch with a sigh, sending Arya a quelling look.  
  
Sansa flushes, angry that her oversight is so public.  
  
“I have it,” Theon shrugs, slouching forward lazily.  
  
“Whatever for?” Robb asks, a challenging edge to his voice. Theon casts him an unimpressed look, before reaching into his pocket. Sansa wants to scream at him not to be so foolish. But she is frozen, helpless to watch as he draws out a small object wrapped in thin, waxy paper.  
  
“Sansa was worried thieves might make off with her precious cargo- or else she would drop it,” drawls Theon.  
  
Arya snorts at that declaration, but leans over like the rest, as Sansa accepts it. She unties the string holding the paper together with trembling fingers. A clam falls out into her hand.  
  
“Father said we weren’t to spend it all on food!” Bran pouts, probably wishing he had.  
  
Sansa stares at the unexpected gift, cautiously opening the shell to reveal the beautiful shiny inside. A pair of pearl earrings are nestling within, set in silver fixtures. Her heart leaps at the sight of the expensive, unwarranted present, wondering what she could have done to earn such a thing. She swallows back the sudden burning sensation in her throat, and smiles defiantly, showing off her pretty trinket. Arya curls her lip in disgust, but Theon winks at her when she catches his eye. She beams at him genuinely, truly grateful.  
  
They are interrupted before anyone can question her on their cost or origin. Domeric Bolton is polite and quiet as he hails their attention. He bows as stiffly to her father, as he did to Lord Manderly the night before. Sansa drinks in his features, trying to see if they conceal the same level of cruelty as Roose Bolton’s other son.  
  
Domeric is taller than his brother, a man grown. His hair is curled like Ramsay’s, but far darker, akin to Jon’s. His eyes are darker also, a stormy blue, more lively than Ramsay’s pale ice chips. His smile doesn’t light up his face with manic glee, and is instead a subdued, almost saddened thing. His chin, nose and the shape of his eyes are where he favours Ramsay most. The cut of their jaw is an exact likeness. But his lips are a different shape, less plump. He is as handsome as his brother, perhaps moreso. But that may only be due to Sansa’s lack of fear toward him. His house has not yet betrayed her own. Domeric is not seeking to rule the North through her. Not yet, anyway, she thinks darkly.  
  
“I am pleased to meet you all,” he says, making sure to meet each of set of curious eyes watching him. “And deeply honoured for your invitation to Winterfell, my lord.”  
  
Ned Stark waves away Domeric’s formality. “We are lucky to have you, a man who can tell us much of the land South of the Neck. Life in the North can be very inwardly focused. At times it is as though we forget the other Six Kingdoms exist.”  
  
Domeric smiles humbly, “My time in the Vale was a pleasant one. I will be happy to speak of it to willing ears.”  
  
“And of jousting? You’ll tell us about it?” Bran interrupts, eagerly.  
  
“I was lucky enough to participate in a tourney.” Domeric reveals. “I can certainly speak of it, should it interest you.”  
  
“Yes!” Bran squeals, launching into his usual spiel about wishing to become a knight. Sansa shakes her head. Bran is usually shy around strangers, but give him a real knight to speak to, and the boy makes Theon look reticent. She casts a glance at the man in question. He is watching Domeric with an odd combination of distrust and interest on his face. She wonders what thoughts might be running across his mind.  
  
They pass a pleasant luncheon together, Father making sure they do not wear their poor guest out with too many inquiries. As the servants begin to clear their tables, Sansa and her siblings hop from the benches, keen to get back outside. She turns to find Domeric at her elbow, smiling down at her from a great height. She shivers to be so close to the flayed man sigil once more, carved into the boiled leather of his jerkin.  
  
“There is to be dancing tonight, my lady.” He says, and she wrenches her eyes from the hated symbol with considerable effort. Domeric doesn’t seem to notice.  
  
“I have heard it said you are a lively dancer, Lady Sansa, very sure on your feet. I trust you will let me see for myself, this evening?”  
  
Sansa curtsies, and feels her face slip into the mask she wore at King’s Landing. “I should like that very much, Ser.”  
  
It does not feel like a lie, and yet Sansa feels nauseous, at the thought of touching the skin of another treacherous flayed man  
  
*  
  
When she returns to her room to change for dinner, Robb is sitting on her bed, worrying the knitted green blanket with his hands.  
  
“I know you didn’t buy those earrings.” he accuses her, “I was watching your face when you opened that clam. You didn’t have clue as to what was inside.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. Who else could have bought them?” Sansa swept his charges aside, crossing to her wardrobe to begin sorting through her dresses. She intended to wear green that night, and wanted to assess her options.  
  
Robb crosses his arms with a huff, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Theon. Theon bought them for you, as a gift.”  
  
Sansa thrusts her chin out, unimpressed by his display of dominance. “Why ever should he do that?”  
  
“Enough, Sansa!” Robb's patience snaps, “You have to end this game with him.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking of, Robb-” She begins to insist, until he takes her by the shoulders, and forcefully steers her to sit on the guest bed.  
  
“What did you actually spend your money on, hmm?” Robb casts his eyes about her room, searching for her hidden trinket. If he starts ferreting about the place, he may uncover her beautiful, sapphire and emerald encrusted dagger. It would not be so easy to explain as the earrings.  
  
“Myrish ribbon!” Sansa exclaims. “It’s not as pretty as the lace, of course, but that is worth more than its weight in gold and I would never have been able to buy any. Mother promised me a wedding gown in Myrish lace, and when I saw the ribbon-”  
  
Robb sighs heavily, not caring one whit for Sansa’s sewing fabric. He waves away her words, resting his hands upon his hips, looking extremely put upon. Were his expression not so grave, Sansa would giggle at his attempt to impersonate Father.  
  
“Sansa, I know you enjoy your girlish games,” He begins, earnestly settling beside her. “But you must know life is not a song composed entirely of maidens and fair knights.”  
  
“I know that!” Sansa insists, insulted. She knows she has shown great maturity in the past moons, compared to her previous self. It hurts to think that others still see her as a stupid girl.  
  
Robb pats her knee paternally. “I thought so, since you have grown up so much. But you cannot court a man’s attentions, and think it just a game.”  
  
Sansa gapes at her brother, aghast. “I would never do such an improper, vile thing!”  
  
“Sansa,” Robb sighs, “Theon is almost a man grown. I know you have some affection for him; you were the one to name him a Stark. You can’t accept gifts from a man, for no occasion, as though he were courting you.”  
  
Sansa pouts, still stung by his insult. “I didn’t know he was going to gift me them.”  
  
Robb sighs again, suddenly a world-weary old man. “I know that, Sansa. But to accept them, it sends a message you may not intend.”  
  
Sansa bristles, unused to his patronising tone. No one speaks in such a way to her at Winterfell, during her lessons. She could hardly have rejected the pearls, in front of everyone. What did Robb expect her to do, return them?  
  
Her brother insists; “Creating false expectation leads to heartache and fury. You know it can never lead anywhere.”  
  
“Theon has no false expectations!” She wails.  
  
“You know that isn’t true,” Robb fixes her with another stern look. “To toy with a man’s affections is a cruel thing, Sansa.”  
  
She slaps him with an open fist before she can stop herself. Robb clutches his reddened cheek in disbelief. Sansa’s chest is heaving with constrained anger, and she does not trust herself to speak immediately, frightened of what might come pouring out. She is so alone in her mission, constantly frightened and confused about the steps she is taking. Theon’s friendship has been a source of comfort, and Robb’s accusations are spoiling it.  
  
“How dare you?” she hisses, “I would never do such a thing. Like some waspish, fickle Southern wench, withholding her attentions without reason, and playing her suitors against one another. Do you really think so low of me?”  
  
Robb opens his mouth, but seems to think better of it.  
  
“Get out!” Sansa snarls, physically pushing him off her borrowed bed, and out of the room, “Go!”  
  
Her brother allows her to bully him out, shamed by his unintended insult. Sansa slams the door in his face, the wood rattling in its frame, as she presses her back to it. She clasps one hand across her mouth to capture her sob, as she slides to the floor. The tears come heavy and fast.  
  
*  
  
Sansa eventually gathers hold of her senses, in enough time to have cleaned her face free of tears, before the servants of White Harbour come to help her dress. Sansa has chosen a pale green and white dress, reminiscent of the Stark banner, and defiantly wears the pearl earrings. She requests that her hair is drawn back, leaving just a few strands to trail down her neck, to showcase them. She rejects any suggestion of complex Southern braids, but instead asks for her locks to be collected high onto her head, and allowed to tumble down her back. It is a style she once saw Margaery Tyrell wear, though she had a crown to nestle in the front.  
  
Sansa observes herself after they are done, in the looking glass. The neckline of her dress is a mixture of grey and white beads, glittering at her throat. Her hair shimmers like fire in the candle-light. She is still wearing a child’s body, but she feels less of a doll, with adult jewellery and a her hair arranged like a woman grown.  
  
“Will you send for Theon Greyjoy?” she asks the Manderly handmaid, “I wish for him to walk me to the feast.”  
  
Theon obliges her with exaggerated flourish, his black doublet new and sharp. By coincidence, the cuts on the sleeves reveal green silk beneath. They match like a twin set of lord-and-lady dolls.  
  
She takes savage pleasure in the look on Robb’s face, as they join the Stark party on the way to the Hall. His cheek is still red, but it turns a darker colour when he sees her on Theon’s arm. Sansa sneers at her brother, before tossing back her hair, and focusing her attention on her escort. Robb is forced to accompany Arya, who drags her feet, having been stuffed into a particularly nice dress.  
  
Sansa anticipates her dance with Domeric with fear gnawing in her stomach. It prevents her eating much, though she manages almost half of the eel stew. She need not have worried so much, she finds. Theon is the first to pull her into the dancing, twirling her to the quick tune.  
  
“I knew they’d suit,” he confides, when she thanks him for his thoughtful gift.  
  
“I always know what women want,” Theon postures arrogantly, then winces, as if remembering he need not brag to her. Sansa laughs, unoffended.  
  
“I doubt anyone knows the true desires of another, always,” she muses, catching sight of Domeric Bolton, still seated. “And even less reveal what is truly in their heart.”  
  
Theon looks at her seriously then, all trace of jollity gone. “You speak truly there, my lady.”  
  
“I often do,” Sansa confesses.  
  
*


	11. Victarion

THE PIOUS TRAVELLER

He always did as his brother bid. Victarion was a loyal, faithful man. He had no fear of death. Victarion wore full plate armour at sea, knowing that the Drowned God would only take him when he was ready to host Victarion in his great watery halls, and not before. So when Balon asked him to take their soft-head brother to visit the kraken, he did as he was bid, and did not ask why. That they would get a chance to see if Balon's youngest whelp was a boy worth taking back to the Islands, was a worthy bonus.

Victarion did not like to make decisions outside of warfare. He knew his strength was in battle, not the whimperings of lesser men, that they called politics. But Balon was relying on him to make a decision about the boy, and it was not one to be taken lightly.

So Victarion had taken men he trusted to give him the truth; Dagmer and Aeron, to give him insight regarding the boy, and hoped it would be sufficient. They would soon have the answers they sought, and he prayed Balon would find them satisfactory.


	12. Sansa VI

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa strokes the neck of her borrowed horse, the attractive chestnut mare naturally placid, her muzzle buried in the feed sack. Sansa has been gently untangling her mane, running the horse-brush through thick hair until it shines smooth. She is distracted by the warm breath of the beast and the heat of her soft furry hide. She does not notice Lord Domeric approach until he speaks.

“You have a deft hand, Lady Sansa,” he compliments. His tone is soft and even, not over-honeyed with flattery. It seems more an observation than a compliment. She acknowledges his words with a tip of her head.

“A horse is a responsibility best not left to stable-hands and strangers.” Sansa says, “I believe she will feel more secure if she becomes familiar with my touch.”

“I could not agree more,” Domeric nods, “A horse is not a tool, such as a sword or a smith’s hammer. It cannot be cleaned and set aside. A relationship between rider and horse must be maintained.”

“I confess she is not mine to keep,” Sansa smooths her hand down the neck and shoulder of the lovely animal one last time before she steps back to face her companion properly. “I had need of a mount for the journey to Winterfell, and a guard gladly gave me use of her. Still, she is in my charge until we return home, and I will see her well satisfied. I take my duties seriously.”

“I see it is so.” Domeric acknowledges, with a lop-sided smile that curves one half of his face, creating a dimple in one cheek. It is charming, in its subdued way.

For the first time since meeting him Sansa sees him alone, without the visage of his brother hovering in front of his face. He is his own man, and it is time she took him as such. It would be wrong to judge him by his brother’s sins, and Sansa knew a man was not responsible for the actions of those that shared his blood. Jon had shown her that. It was a path she was determined to follow. Theon did not deserve to suffer for Balon’s sins, just as Domeric did not deserve her scorn, for Ramsay’s.

 “Do you enjoy to ride, Lady Sansa? I imagine it cannot be often if you have no steed of your own.” Domeric enquires.

Sansa considers the beautiful black destrier Domeric has stabled a few stalls down from her current mount. He has entered the tilts on that stocky but calm horse. He must enjoy riding himself, and be curious to know if she shares his opinion.

“As a child I did not.” She admits, “But I grew out of that. I now enjoy the activity so much that I accompany my younger brother Bran, during his lessons. It is my excuse to spend extra time riding. Mother is not so fond of allowing my sister and I to ride freely, in the wild Northern fashion. She would prefer us to ride in the Southern manner.”

Domeric listens to her explanation with concentration, watching her intently. Sansa meets his scrutiny with open, honest eyes.

“Ladies in the South do conduct themselves differently.” Domeric says. Sansa cannot tell if he prefers or disapproves of that differing conduct. She satisfies herself with a nod, to indicate she has heard him, but has nothing to add to his statement.

“There is nothing I enjoy more than riding.” He confides in her suddenly, his eyes shining with genuine pleasure at joyful memories. “Would you like to meet Aemon, my horse? I named him for Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.”

Sansa bites her tongue to stop herself from reacting too positively to the name. The Dragonknight was one of her favourite heroes from the songs. She allows herself to nod and smile brightly, walking with a careful distance between herself and the newly anointed knight. She would not wish her and Domeric’s arms to brush; that was how rumours were started.

The splendid horse immediately trots to the open stable door, ducking his head down over the closed partition of the door. Domeric gives Ameon a friendly pat on the nose, before taking an apple from his pocket, and a sharp knife from his belt. He quickly slices the apple in half, offering one piece to his horse, and the other to Sansa. She waits for the large teeth to make quick work of the first piece, and then offers her own. She strokes the soft nose of the tall horse, and offers Lord Domeric her compliments on such a lovely destrier. He seems surprised she can put a name to the breed.

“Should you like one for yourself someday, Lady Sansa?” his question seems genuine, and not a jape at her expense. Mayhaps he wonders how confident she truly is, in her riding proficiency.

“I do not think I would be suited to such a powerful animal,” Sansa shakes her head, her red waves bouncing. “I have arrangements with my Uncle, Benjen Stark, for mine own horse. He is arranging the sale of a garron for me. I had thought to pay for it myself, from the coins I have collected from my father, but I believe Uncle Benjen may gift it to me on my name-day.”

Domeric frowns. “A garron? An unusual choice, I suspect, my lady.”

Sansa shrugs. “The lands of the North are rugged and untamed, Ser. What use is speed, if my horse falters in deep snow or cannot climb with a sure hoof? I should feel safer on a horse bred to range North of the Wall.”

He seems impressed, she notices.

“A very well-reasoned assessment,” he notes, in that now-familiar tone of statement with just a touch of warmth, rather than a resounding compliment, and she smiles. It is nicer than the overblown praise the likes of Wyman Manderly heap on her head, for her luck at being born the eldest daughter of a great House.

“Sansa!” Theon’s voice calls to her across the stable yard. He is charging toward her confidently, but falters when she and Domeric turn, and Theon can see exactly whose company she is keeping.

“Lord Domeric,” Theon greets the flayed man stiffly, and receives an equally cool response. The two men eye one another with hooded eyes and barely contained mistrust. How such an animosity can have arisen within days, Sansa does not know. She resists the urge to roll her eyes at the antics of boys.

“Have I been sent for?” Sansa enquires, injecting herself into their silent staring.

 Theon reawakens to her presence, and his frosty look melts into a warm smile. “I’ve glad tidings, my lady!”

He offers her his arm, and she takes it automatically, almost beginning to walk away before remembering to take her leave of Domeric Bolton. She thanks him for introducing her to his horse and hopes they can enjoy a ride together one day soon. It seems the correct thing to do, having just discussed their mutual enjoyment of riding. Sansa feels Theon’s arm stiffen in her hold, but does not allow her placid mask to slip. Then she is free to walk with Theon. She does not fail to notice he does not share his news until the Bolton heir is well out of earshot.

“An unexpected turn has befallen on me,” he says, but does not seem to know how to continue. A grin is gracing his features, but there is worry in the set of his brow.

“You seem in high spirits,” Sansa prompts, her eyes dancing about his face.

“I am,” Theon says robustly, as though he has need of the reminder. “I am pleased. An Ironborn ship has come to White Harbour. My father has sent men to view the kraken.”

Sansa cannot stifle a small gasp. She feels foolish for not having anticipated that Balon would want verification of such an omen for himself.

“Do you think your Father will be among them?” She asks, wondering how the Lord of the Iron Islands might react to seeing his estranged son after so many years, among the party of his enemies. How the reality of Theon’s upbringing might impact him, when confronted with the actual sight of it. Would he quarrel with her father, displeased by Theon’s Northern ways? Sansa swallows, unwilling to imagine how Theon might react if his father insults him publicly.

Theon chews on his lower lip, seemingly bothered by the same concerns. “I do not know.” He admits, “They say he has not left Pyke in many years.”

“Well, we must make sure you are properly outfitted should you meet your family,” Sansa says, suddenly wary of how warmongering Ironborn would react to Theon’s fine silk doublet of a patterned mint green. She begins to tug him towards the guest the rooms the Stark household has been given in the Manderly castle.

Theon allows her to lead him to the room he is using. Sansa quickly leaves his side to root through the clothes hanging in his wardrobe, looking for the plainest, roughest materials. She settles on a black tunic, a dark brown leather jerkin with full sleeves, and decides the grey breeches and muddied boots Theon is wearing will serve well enough. She selects his least adorned cloak, one that is dark grey and has a black kraken sewn on the left shoulder.

“They will be glad to see you hale and hearty. I suspect they will want to spar with you. I know you brought your bow; you can ask for targets to be set out. Lord Balon will surely be waiting for news of you and your training from men he trusts, if he did not come.”

Theon nods enthusiastically. “Yes, he will have asked his men to see that I am healthy and that you Starks have treated me well.”

“No doubt, your treatment is your lord father’s main concern,” Sansa assures him, though she doubts the truth of her words. Lord Balon has never been described as a warm, caring man. But her pretty lies are for Theon’s sake, to give him the confidence to confront his father’s men.

“You should look ferocious in that.” She declares of her final clothing choices, “Perhaps an extra knife or two strapped to your thigh?” she suggests, motioning to the throwing daggers on Theon’s table.

“As you say, my lady,” he concedes, amused. She tilts her head in silent question. Theon answers with something wistful in his tone, when he says; “I suspect your lady mother directs Lord Stark in a similar fashion.”

Sansa feels her cheeks heat up.

“My mother has an impeccable eye.” She declares, and orders him to change quickly, taking her leave.

*

Robb is sparring with Domeric when she finds him. His hair is slicked with sweat, but his movements are strong. Domeric gives no quarter, and Sansa can see that Robb’s pride will not allow the fight to be a quick one. Sansa prevents that with a prompt word in Rodrick Cassel’s ear. He ends the bout, leaving both competitors disappointed to have not bested the other.

“Father has sent for me?” Robb asks her, rolling out his shoulders, as he hands his shield and sword to the young Manderly servant come to claim them.

“Not exactly,” Sansa reveals, leading her brother away from prying ears before he can protest.

She needs him equally presentable, as she doubts their father would allow his daughter into the room, when the Ironborn contingent arrives at New Castle. And Theon cannot stand alone, with only Lord Stark in his Warden of the North mask as an ally. Robb is still Theon’s closest friend, and will jump to his defence should anything untoward happen. This is the first time she has sought out her brother's assistance since their altercation. Her demeanour has been cold with Robb since his vile insinuations, but as she frogmatches him towards his chambers, she claims all will be forgotten if Robb performs his duties as Theon’s brother admirably.

“Be mindful of his pride Robb, should Theon feel humiliated by his crude kinsmen. I know how boys lash out and refuse comfort when they are wounded.” Sansa chides, shaking her head at the folly of men.

“I’m not a nursemaid, Sansa-” Robb protests, and yelps when Sansa pinches the delicate skin of his wrist in retaliation.

“For shame, Robb Stark!” She cries, “You would abandon your closest friend, if he were in need? If Theon is hurt, you will offer him assurance and counsel in private, and even a hug, if need be.”

She makes her demands belligerently, because he owes her a boon, and he knows it. Robb sighs dramatically, but swears to provide comfort, if it is warranted.

“With a hug,” Sansa presses, and enjoys the sight of her brother squirming.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Sansa,” he resists, withering under her sharp look.

“You’d be surprised how reassuring the embrace of a younger brother can be.” Sansa says authoritatively, remembering the feel of Bran in her arms, when he returned to Winterfell on the back of a cart. “And you are Theon’s younger brother.” She says forcefully, and because they have reached Robb’s rooms, she pushes him towards the door, raising an eyebrow in silent judgement when he turns to cast her one last dubious look.

Her plan comes to fruition when she sees Robb clap Theon on the shoulder, slinging an arm around his neck when a Stark man comes to direct Theon to Lord Manderly’s solar. Her brother waves off the guard’s concern when he refuses to stay behind. Sansa watches proudly across the courtyard, as her brother accompanies his friend to face the men of his homeland, for the first time since boyhood.

*

Sansa meets the Ironborn that night, after they have been offered bread and salt, and Lord Manderly has found them rooms, regardless of the bulging guests burdening the castle’s supplies. For the first time since their arrival, Theon is dining away from the Starks. He is seated between a stocky, gruesome-looking warrior, with a huge scar dissecting the lower half of his face, and a greybeard with long, fine hair and equally long grey robes, darker than those of a maester. To Sansa’s great relief, Theon is smiling, chattering attentively with the scarred warrior. The man is drinking copious amounts of ale, but seems to be listening to Theon with fondness. The smile ravaged by his torn lips seems broad and genuine, not mocking. But Sansa is not privy to the conversation from this distance.

As soon as it is acceptable for guests to stand and mingle, Sansa immediately moves across the room, dragging a reluctant Arya with her. The Mormonts are only two tables away from Theon, and Arya perks up when Sansa leads her to Dacey and Jonelle. She makes polite conversation with them for a time. Once the talk turns to weaponry, and they are sufficiently distracted by Arya’s keen questions, she slips away unnoticed.

Theon spots her making her way closer, and is quick to join her midway between tables. Saving her the awkwardness of hovering nearby and hoping to inject herself into their talk. Looping her arm over his elbow is a familiar manoeuvre. She stands tall and dignified as he introduces her. Theon seems proud of her, as he motions to the men his father has sent.

“These are my Uncles, Aeron Greyjoy and Dagmer Cleftjaw. Uncles, I present Sansa of House Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard.”

Sansa curtsies, trying not to be downtrodden at the blank gaze of the greybeard, Lord Aeron, who is as damp and pale as Theon described. Dagmer offers her a hideous grin, which Sansa returns without a wince, because she has been in close proximity to Sandor Clegane many times. The other men are covered in various weaponry, axes, knives and maces favoured over swords. Theon does not look out of place with excessive knives strapped to his thighs and belt.

“It is good to meet those who share blood with Theon. You look to be as devoted to the Drowned God, and as mighty as he described.” Sansa says, her voice unwavering.

“You know of our god?” Aeron turns his vacant stare to her, eyes narrowing suspiciously. His voice is a brittle rasp.

Sansa tips her head in a shallow nod. “Naturally. The Drowned God is an old god, after all. The old gods are many, and watch over us all. I would be sure to pray to him to subdue the Storm God, before I undertook any sea voyage.”

Aeron’s look becomes far more perceptive, nodding in approval. “Greenlanders don’t usually know true devotion.”

“Uncle,” Theon hisses, displeased, so Sansa realises she has been insulted. She shakes it away, as words are wind.

“I keep to the old gods of my forefathers, my lord,” Sansa says with steel in her voice, “And I count the Drowned God amongst them. I pray you all are found worthy to sup in his watery halls when he calls you forth.”

Dagmer chuckles, spittle flying from his cleaved lips. “She’ll not easily bend, this one,” he observes. It seems a mild warning, if the knowing look he shoots toward his nephew is any indication.

“A weak woman provides no challenge, and no thrill,” Theon throws back, uncaring of the implications he is making, right in front of Sansa, and anyone who might be listening on the surrounding tables.

His distant relation concedes to the wisdom of youth with a jolly bobbing nod, as he raises his mug of ale. “To challenging women!” He roars, the Ironborn joining in with lewd calls of their own.

Sansa refuses to shy away, instead blinking inquisitively, stretching her head another half-inch above the ground. She notices glares from the nearby tables. The other guests have not been subtle in their anger at the inclusion of Iron Islanders. Sansa has no doubt many were expecting them to be turned away. To be denied harbour in the first instance. She is glad is was not so. Hostility between regions is not conducive to a secure North, ready to face war from the South and death from the far North.

She has not forgotten the danger that lies Beyond the Wall, focused as Sansa is on her own family turmoil. There is no use securing the lives of her family and their stronghold on the North, only to see it all devastated beneath the Night King’s sword. Everything she does, is to ensure the survival of her people. Even the more unsavoury ones, she thinks, as she regards the boisterous Ironborn.

If she steps a little closer to Theon and squeezes his arm just a tad too tightly, he makes no comment. When Sansa enquires as to their opinion on the kraken, she is met with calls of ‘what is dead may never die!’, which Theon joins in with. Aeron Greyjoy stares at her as though he can see through her flesh to the fragile soul beneath, and proclaims that krakens belong in the sea.

Sansa’s smile is a savage thing, when she informs him that Theon said the exact same words.

*

“A sailor?” Sansa repeats dumbly, staring at Jon owlishly, her eyes comically wide. She had not anticipated that their excursion to White Harbour would cost a her a brother. Jon shifts under her attention, wringing his hands with nervous energy.

“Lord Manderly’s offer was very generous, more than a- more than I deserve.” He mutters, cheeks warm. Clearly not believing himself worthy of work as a deckhand on a Manderly ship, to be trained in the ways of a seafarer.

“But what of Bran?” She asks, bewildered. Jon was not known as a boy to shirk his duties. Sansa had not considered he might not feel it was his obligation to protect his younger brother, should Bran be sent to the Dreadfort.

Jon grimaces. “There are those far better trained to guard him than I. Besides, I thought you might suggest Bran be fostered as a page in Riverrun first, much like Ser Domeric was a page in Barrowton before his squiring.”

Sansa frowns, surprised she did not think of that suggestion herself. She blames it on the distraction of the Ironborn, and her preoccupation with Theon’s feelings. Domeric had mentioned his two fosterings with fondness, and she should have seen the way to fulfil Bran’s wishes, and her own. Her brother’s safety was compromised because of her distraction, and she hates herself a little, that she cannot bring herself to feel much guilt over it. _Keeping Theon close is a duty I must not neglect,_ she reminds herself. _I needed to ensure Robb would be a source of comfort and a confidante._

“And Father has agreed?” Sansa enquires, wondering if there is still time to stop this scheme before it gains momentum.

Jon gives a flicker of a smile, that is gone between one breath and the next. “Lord Manderly is in talks with him today. I think he wishes for his granddaughters to return to Winterfell with us, for a time.”

With those words, Sansa understands completely. The Lamprey Lord, as she has heard him called behind his back, is more shrewd than he appears. How much of his dopey, long-winded speeches are simply an act, to lull his guests and rivals into making a mistake? She has been blind, so distracted by other matters. Wyman is suggesting an exchange of sorts; taking in a bastard son and giving him a trade, and supplanting his own eligible granddaughters in Winterfell.

Wynafryd Manderly has been complimentary to Robb, her sweet smiles so reminiscent of Margaery Tyrell. A woman who always wanted to be noticed doing good. Whose charity toward the smallfolk must always have an audience. Margaery cloaked her intention to have the Tyrells rule the North through Sansa, beneath an offer of marriage to allow her to escape the Red Keep. Margaery was so formidable because her kindnesses were real. Whereas Joffrey only ever faked genteel affection and empathy, Margaery took her genuine compassion and amplified it. Wylla Manderly is a less skillful player, but she too has been flattering toward Sansa’s eldest brother. Wyman Manderly wants his blood to rule the North, through a great-grandchild.

Sansa wonders if it would be such a bad thing, if Robb married into the wealthiest house in the North. Then she remembers that the Manderlys are already loyal to the Starks, and her brother must remain unattached to foster a more useful alliance. But she doubts her parents will consider such a thing, if he falls in love with a loyal bannerman’s daughter. Many still smarted that the currect Lady of Winterfell was a Southerner. Sansa now understood how disgusted the Northmen were, that she and her siblings were raised in the Light of the Seven, as well as the old gods. That Robb had no interest in the Seven wasn’t enough to make them forget that a Sept had been built in the heart of the North. Not for the first time, Sansa curses her Father’s honourable foolishness.

“Do you think Father will say yes?” Jon asks her, a hint of longing in his eyes. He craves to be away from Lady Catelyn’s harsh glares, Sansa knows. To see a future for himself, where he might carve his own path.

“I could not guess,” Sansa replies honestly. She now understands Father had been terrified of Jon’s parentage being discovered, which is why he would never allow Mother to send Jon away. But would he consider such an opportunity for Jon, or dismiss it, like every other future his adopted son may have had? Nothing was a good enough hiding place save for the Wall. Were murderers, thieves and rapers the only company you wanted for your supposed son, Father? She wants to ask. Did Benjen’s presence allow you to ease your conscience of leading Jon astray, of never telling him the truth of what the Watch had become?

She doubts she will get the answers she desires, if she presses her Father on why he will not provide Jon with ideas, on what his future may contain. There are any number of crumbling castles or holdfasts he could gift Jon, without their size being an insult to his trueborn children. He might have suggested Jon go to Oldtown to train as a Maester, or have him assist Rodrick as an apprentice, to become Robb’s master-at-arms in years to come. But Father had never suggested any such thing to Jon to Sansa’s knowledge. No wonder Jon had seized upon the first opportunity for escape, just as he had in her past life.

“Theon shall be jealous, if you learn to steer a ship.” Sansa japes, “Though you may find yourself green with seasickness, confined to your cabin. Wolves are not meant for prolonged swimming!”

Jon laughs, and Sansa determines to be kind and supportive of her brother’s path, even if it takes him from the safety of Winterfell far sooner than she would like.

*


	13. Theon II

THE FORMER TRAVELLER

He had never felt like this. At any given time he could not decide what was appropriate to say to others such as Robb; what was too much, if he was being too bold or not bold enough. Sansa was so easy to talk to, but Theon had never had cause to be brave about his former conquests. The other girls were easy to charm, a flash of a smile, the reveal of his name and title was enough. But Sansa was not like those girls.

Sansa already knew him, deeply and honestly, in a manner Theon could not undo. He could use charming words on her, falsehoods to draw her in. But then her affection would be just as meaningless as all those other girls, ones he could barely even recall, when their faces were all washed out and faded by the brightness of Sansa's smile. Theon wanted her, deeply and truly, in a manner that he has never desired anyone. He wanted to keep her, for Sansa to be his alone.

_I am hers and she is mine._

The words had never held much meaning before now, and yet Theon desired nothing more than to make them ring true for the two of them. But it was a child's idle dream, and he knew the time to wake was rapidly approaching.


	14. Sansa VII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Though House Stark may be the greatest of the Northern houses, there is no denying it is far from the grandest, Sansa ruminates, as they rumble along in the wheel house. Though Sansa did not express her reluctance as vocally, she is as displeased as Arya to be here. They are confined to the wooden box, whilst the boys ride free. All save for Bran, who was tucked up beside Arya. 

Arya had promptly fallen asleep rather than engage in polite conversation with the Manderly sisters. Bran was well on his way to joining her, having thoroughly extolled the virtues of Winterfell to the girls. He now drifted in that space separating the waking world from dreams. Sansa wanted to reach out to him and smooth down a disobedient lick of hair, but knew better than to disturb his peace until it was a settled one.

She watches as clouds roll by. Her view of the procession is blocked by the Manderly man that has chosen to ride alongside for the last hour or so. There is no courteous way to ask him to move, so Sansa refrains from attempting. It would be rude to her companions, to suggest she is seeking distraction from their company: especially as it is the truth.

It is not that Sansa finds the older girls unpleasant. They are infinitely more sensible and mature than Beth and Jeyne, due to their age and social status. After Wyman’s sons, they are all that passes for a Manderly heir, though there are cousins that will dispute it, if they do not marry well. They speak to her with a sweetness that is just shy of overtly patronising, taking Sansa’s supposed age to expect her ignorant. Or perhaps it is scorn, of her lady mother’s Southern manner reflecting in Sansa’s actions. She cannot help the stance of her walk, nor alter too obviously the method of her speech.

As the months have gone by, Sansa has noticed the broadening of her Northern accent, dipping into tones and phrases more commonly tumbling from Robb’s mouth. She hopes the action is seen as affectionate worship of her elder brother. Sansa-that-was believed him the person closest to a Winterfell knight. It is a belief that stretches to Jon now, and Rodrick Cassel, the ever-watchful master-at-arms. They are men worth emulating, honourable in both thought and action, though there are moments where Robb’s stupid boyhood shines through. Still, they are closer to a true knight than any Sansa encountered in King’s Landing.

They are Northmen who truly protect the weak and strive to do justice, for the goodness of it, and not the benefit it will bring them. She once felt that way about her father, but she cannot bring herself to extoll the famed honour of Ned Stark any longer. She loves him fiercely. But too many dark secrets surround his image, for her to waft them away. They are smears across the looking glass, obscuring the image within. Beneath her father’s solid, stoic advice and gruff demeanour, lies a man in constant conflict with the truth. A man who hides from his responsibilities, every time he fails to step in front of his wife’s ire toward Jon. It is a crime Sansa is quickly coming to consider unforgiveable, anger boiling in her breast.

It was Father alone who managed to stymie Jon’s escape however. Sansa cannot be sorry for it, regardless of the tears Jon fiercely fought to keep from falling afterward. Robb had been unable to make Jon reconsider his acceptance of Lord Manderly’s offer. She even discovered that Theon had tried, in his usual brash manner; denouncing the scheme as running away, and prodding at Jon’s duty to his family. Neither boy had made an impact, and Sansa hasn’t bothered.

Arya knew nothing of the scheme until it was denied, and she has refused to speak to Jon since, terribly betrayed by this thwarted abandonment. Bran, naturally, finds the whole idea romantic and thrilling, another adventure straight from his compendium of knightly tales. Jon has remained quiet on the subject, having outlined his ideas logically and maturely to Father; who promptly forbade him without much justification.

Sansa had hoped for a less decisive denial. The illusion, at least, that Father would mull it over. As a demonstration that he considered Jon’s opinions to have merit, and be worthy of consideration. But as always, their father was completely blind to the motivations and needs of others. Insensitive, is the word, Sansa decides, as the clouds ahead rumble. Heavy splashes of rain begins to descend in great sheets. Father is not wilfully cruel, he is merely unable to pick up on the subtle clues they exhibit, and therefore react in a more delicate manner.

Thankfully, Lord Manderly was less easy to dissuade. He had invested thought in his scheme, and no doubt worried Lord Stark would reject his granddaughters, without some form of exchange. After long private talks, Father announced that both the Manderly girls would be accompanying them back to Winterfell. Futhermore, Jon would return with them to White Harbour in a year. He did not say that Jon would be free to pursue a career on a ship then, but he did not deny it. When Lord Manderly loudly announced the girls would be accompanied by retired sailors, able to ‘show him the ropes’, Jon had blushed with ill-hidden hope. Father’s lips had merely pursed in displeasure. He hadn’t disavowed the idea again, and that was sufficient to distract Jon from thoughts of the Wall. It was an adequate accompaniment to Sansa’s schemes also. This way, she would not lose precious time with the brother she had underestimated before.

Now, she catches glimpses of Jon and Theon riding ahead, their darkened hair quickly sodden due to their unhooded cloaks. Jon should have worn the fox fur one that Sansa had made him, she thinks. Of course Jon would never wear something so lovely, for such an arduous ride. The dark reddish-brown was not a Stark colour either. The dark grey he wore blended better with the Stark men riding ahead.

Theon had no such qualms, of course. His dark teal cloak was proudly emblazoned with a huge black and gold kraken, easy to spot among the dowdy colours of the contingent of Northmen. The Manderly green was forest-like and not at all comparable. As the sky turned darker, the rain heavier, she considered that Theon’s current garment would look very elegant, as it cloaked his bride under his protection. Despite the dreadful weather, she years to canter alongside them, and could not disguise her sigh.

“The rain will force us to make camp early, I should think,” Wylla comments, tossing her green braid over her shoulder, as she leans out of the other window to observe the dim sky.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sansa agrees blithely, for lack of anything substantial to say.

She has successfully avoided most attempts to be drawn into long conversations with the older girls. Sansa has no desire to become a source of information for them, in their quest to win husbands out of this short fostering. No doubt Wynafryd has her sights on Robb, though Domeric Bolton would be more age appropriate for her. Wylla is probably hoping that Robb will find her more enchanting, but would no doubt be pleased with any Northern heir she could catch the attention of. At some point during their stay Father’s other bannermen will visit; she may be hoping to ensnare Smalljon Umber or a Forrester.

“I am sorry for you, Sansa. You are surely missing the comforts of home, and any delay must be vexing.” Wylla presses, and Sansa is forced to engage with her properly.

“Winterfell is my home, and I cherish it,” Sansa admits, entirely truthfully. If there was a way for her to live there forever, she would take it. But she doubts Robb will leave to become King of the Seven Kingdoms, or decide to marry her. To move away and form a household somewhere else was the fate of all wedded women, and Sansa had accepted that many years ago.

“But there is a joyous freedom in riding along the King’s Road, that cannot be replicated by walks in the Godswood.” She drops the volume of her voice, as though imparting a great secret.

Wylla nods somberly, as though she can relate with her own experiences. It may be true; Sansa doesn’t know how well-travelled the Manderly girls are. If their grandfather was shrewd, he would have been trotting them around to his vassal houses in the hopes of spreading word regarding their beauty and feminine skills. Despite his rotund size, Lord Wyman wasn’t showing any inclination towards ill health or mental infirmity. He was a wiley one, with plots she couldn’t imagine the scope of. Thus he had seized on this chance to ingratiate his granddaughters with the sons of House Stark.

If Lord Wyman lived as long as the putrid Lord Frey, control of White Harbour could skip a generation. Especially since any war that broke out could put his sons at risk. A shocking thought burst into Sansa then; perhaps Wynafryd had no interest in Robb at all. There was a possibility that the idea of keeping Jon close, and training him as a seafaring man, was a way to capture themselves a Stark in all but name.

If Wynafryd married Jon, with all still believing him to be Ned Stark’s bastard, their children would be Manderlys. She would gain control of New Castle. With all the servants and guards already loyal to her, there were some who would treat Jon as a stud, to be tolerated for the creation of heirs. The concept made Sansa feel sick, and she hastily swallowed down her bile. She wouldn’t allow Jon to be a pawn in anyone’s games. He deserved a wife that loved him for the good, courageous man he was, and not for the blood of the First Men that flowed in his veins.

She glanced between the Manderly girls with fresh eyes. There was always the chance that Wynafryd was more ambitious than retaining her family seat. Perhaps she was hungry for the more prestigious title of Lady Stark. It would not do for Sansa to follow her around, preventing her from ingratiating herself with Jon, and allow Wylla to swoop in and bewitch him instead. She could feel a headache building behind her eyes already, at the thought of sacrificing her time to prevent these girls from digging their claws into her unsuspecting brothers.

Before she could get entirely lost in her distressing thoughts, the wheelhouse trundled to a stop. Sansa immediately stuck her head of the window, ignoring the cold rain which dripped down her neck and splattered her face. She could see barely anything in the gloom, the sun completely submerged behind black clouds. A loud, menacing rumble rolled across the sky, sending a shiver down her spine. She gasped as a bright bolt of lightning sizzled through the air behind the trees yonder. Bran woke with a start, flailing off his seat and into Arya’s knees, earning himself a startled kick. Sansa ignored them both; the lightning had startled the horses, and the air was filled with frightened whinnying.

She placed a hand on the window ledge, fumbling for the lock just below it. She was suddenly desperate to get outside. The small wooden box they were sitting in felt like a dangerous place to be in a thunderstorm. Her fingers were quickly numb from the frigid rain, and she could not get a grip on the latch.

“Lady Sansa-” Wynafryd Manderly called out for her and tried to place a hand on her arm, in a soothing gesture. She did not succeed however; Sansa finally managed to open the catch, just in time to watch another bolt of lightning brightening the sky. Sansa had been putting her weight behind the door, and could not pull herself back once the latch came loose. She tumbled helplessly out of the wheelhouse, straight into Theon Greyjoy’s waiting arms.

*

The ride to the inn seemed endless. Sansa was tucked as close to Theon’s back as two people could possibly be. Her arms were clenched securely around his middle, her front kept warm and relatively dry, as they confidently bounded across the open ground. The road had become a swamp bog, the carts attached to drays sunken into the thick mud. Sansa spared a thought of sympathy for the poor souls that would be stuck in the rain, attempting to free them.

Slightly ahead of them, Domeric Bolton shared his horse with Lady Wynafryd, whilst Wylla was stuck behind Rodrick. Both girls had seemed disappointed that the Stark boys had not suggested they ride with them. Jon had tried to offer Arya a hand, which she slapped aside, before throwing herself at Robb. Jon kept his face carefully blank, and instead scooped up a sleepy Bran. Their little brother allowed himself to be carried like a babe in arms, and was currently tucked against Jon’s chest.

Theon and Sansa reached the inn before her brothers. He had already secured her a spot beside the roaring fireplace and helped her to peel off her soaking cloak, before they squelched in. Theon presses a cup of hot, spiced wine into her numb hands, flopping down into the space beside her. Bran and Arya are deposited on the floor by their feet; there aren’t enough chairs for everyone. The inn was small, and there was already a group of men in one corner nursing their ale and staring with hollow eyes. Sansa turns away from their vacant stares, and instead gave her attention to the fire. Theon was a pillar of warmth beside her, and it took all her self-control not to sag into him, as though he were a decorative cushion.

Sansa mainly ignores the bubbling speech around her; Rodrick securing the best rooms and Wynafryd demanding hot baths for her and her sister. Jon and Robb are more concerned with food, but Theon was a peaceful presence beside her, sipping on his own wine. She turns toward him as the Manderly women begin to trudge upstairs. Her sopping wet hair was plastered to her face, but she didn’t notice until Theon reached up a hand to brush it behind her ear. His calloused fingertips gently brush her pale cheek, and she cannot prevent the hitch in her breath.

In the dimly lit inn, his eyes are pools of moss, his chapped lips a ribbon of pink on a face made of snow. She wants to bring a healthy blush to his cheek with a kiss. She licks her cold lips, imagining what his cool skin might feel like beneath them, but it was not to be. Jon and Robb clatter toward them, throwing themselves at the bench opposite, breaking the moment. Sansa finds her wine inexplicably enthralling, ducking her head, as Theon stares past her huddled form, into the jolly fire.

“Needs another log,” he grunts, before rummaging in the log pile for a suitable hunk of wood.

“Where’s Ser Domeric?” Bran asks around a yawn. Sansa blinks as she realises the man is indeed missing.

“Worried about his horse,” Robb replies with a lazy shrug, “All the horses really. Thinks they need coddling, because of the storm.”

Sansa frowns, but doesn’t point out that the horses are indeed frightened by the loud thunder. She saw a terrified mare rear up and almost throw her rider, though she couldn’t make out who the man was in the gloom.

“He’s mighty protective over that horse,” Theon comments, though without the scorn Sansa was used to hearing there. He finishes poking at the fire, arranging the two additional logs he had placed there, and re-joins her on their bench.

“It’s a fine animal,” Jon points out, “He’s right to take due care.”

Theon lets out a noise, neither disbelieving or agreeing; “There are more important things than horses, Snow.”

Sansa does not miss the way his eyes flicker toward her as he says so.

“I know you know it,” Theon continues, “Otherwise you’d be out there, prancing around in the rain and mud, instead of here, making sure your family is warm and fed.”

He indicated the serving wench, making her way toward them, with a tray laden with bowls of stew, a plate of sausages, and another of hot rolls. The rolls were reheated and thus slightly toasted on the outside. They fall upon the bounty like ravenous dogs, Arya especially, who drinks from her bowl as though it is a mug. Sansa is too busy mopping up the vegetable stew with her crunchy bread to admonish her, but she makes a note of it for later. There were some things she could not ignore, if she wanted to maintain her reputation.

After consuming the food, they drift toward their rooms; Sansa and Arya are sharing, whilst Theon and Jon have another. Robb is sharing with Ser Domeric, who eventually clatters inside, just as they are making their way up the stairs. Sansa elects to ignore his arrival, in favour of a warm bed. She quickly strips off to her smallclothes. Instead of hunting in her travel trunk for a suitable nightdress, she chooses to wrap herself in one of two spare blankets the serving wench had pressed into her hands. She offers Arya the other, and they bury under the bedcovers together like two tiny field mice in a nest.

She is asleep before the candle smoke dissipates after she blows it out.

*

Moody clouds remain on the horizon in the morn, but the storm has been blown south, so they are free to continue. Sansa dresses in a thick, woollen blue-grey dress and her sturdiest brown boots. She has no intention of being cooped up in the wheelhouse again, not when there is open ground for her to ride across. The road remained too treacherous for so much traffic. In the crowded inn, she enjoys two eggs, whilst pocketing a fresh apple. Most are still eating as she escapes to the stables, pointing out the horse she wants bridled and saddled, to the young hand working there.

Smiler is wary of her at first, but quickly won over by the apple, and allows her astride without a fuss. Sansa practices the manoeuvres she has perfected during Bran’s lessons, riding out to just beyond the yard to see how he responds to her. Theon gapes to see her trotting self-assuredly atop his horse, when he finally stumbles outside into the weak morning sunlight.

“Would my liege care for a ride?” She asks, tilting her head to one side, so her red hair tumbles attractively down one shoulder.

“Sansa!” Robb hollers, alighting from the inn’s stone doorstep. “Quit japing, and get down from Theon’s horse. You’re supposed to be in the wheelhouse!”

Sansa sniffs derisively, “If you’re so enamoured with it, you ride in it. You can keep that slow, lumpy carriage. I’ll be riding this horse.”

“That’s my horse!” Theon splutters, and Sansa offers him a single risen eyebrow.

“It was,” she concedes, “Smiler and I have come to an accord.” She pats the lovely animal on its freshly-brushed neck, the horse flicking its tail obediently, completely unconcerned with being stolen.

“You are welcome to join us,” she offers again, this time holding out a hand. Theon dithers for a moment, offering Robb a hesitant look, before a mischievous grin lights up his face. He takes her gloved hand with his warm fingers, and launches himself onto the horse behind her.

One arm settles on her stomach, pulling her firmly into the space between his legs, while the other takes hold of the reins in her slack hands.

“Lead on, my lady,” he says, his lips brushing the delicate skin of her ear. Sansa obeys, immediately wielding the horse to turn and trot back out of the yard, ignoring Robb’s increasingly nonsensical protests.

Theon laughs into her hair as they race off, joining the men who have lashed the carts of luggage to the work horses. Sansa joins him, her heart light as giggles drip from her lips.

“I always knew you were a troublemaker, Sansa Stark,” Theon confides, and Sansa doesn’t bother to deny it. It’s a long time since she was concerned with the rules and restrictions of a proper lady. She isn’t about to go back to caring about them now. There are other things occupying her mind, far more important.

*

Theon and Sansa don’t push Smiler too hard, knowing their combined weight will weigh heavily on the poor animal if they attempt to rush and race ahead. They are content to go at a steady pace toward the back of the procession. Father shoots her a confused look when he notices, but he is too far ahead to comment on it, or demand she re-join the other girls in the wheelhouse. She was careful to keep it that way.

The stop for lunch is brief enough to matter little; she snatches a short conversation with Jon. He cheerfully imparts the welcome news, that Arya had deigned to speak to him, when they broke their fast. Sansa is glad. Arya can hold a grudge for an inordinate amount of time, and Jon doesn’t deserve her ire for seeking to better his prospects.

Theon sits in front when they set off again. As much as Sansa enjoyed the feel of his warm hands on her stomach, his sensual whispers into her ear, she also values the chance to cuddle into him as the temperature drops.

In the morn, they had discussed Yara Greyjoy’s marriage prospects. Lord Aeron had declared that the dead kraken was an omen, that the Greyjoy line might die out, if steps were not taken. He muttered several things about Balon never taking appropriate steps to curb Yara’s behaviour. Sansa had been surprised when the Ironborn made noises of agreement. Yara was a respected, battle-tested leader in the time she had come from.

But the lack of other Ironborn women fighting alongside her had not gone unnoticed, even then. Yara was not a typical example of a maiden from the Iron Islands. Apparently Lord Aeron was convinced her behaviour could lead to the downfall of their House, if it wasn’t curtailed. Sansa felt pity for Yara then, this woman she had never met, in either of her lives, but whose fierce reputation preceded her. Sansa knew what it was to be forced into an unwanted marriage, and doubted Yara would be prepared for all it entailed. But with her father alive, and with the Ironborn influenced heavily by Aeron's drowned men priests, she doubted Theon’s sister would avoid her fate.

Theon spoke of the noblest houses of the Iron Islands, outlining what he could remember of their eligible men, though marriages may have taken place he was not informed of. He decided that any House would do, so long as it wasn’t House Farwynd of Lonely Light, because everyone knew they all had ocean madness.

“Due to them staring out at the edge of the world.” Theon had said, with deep gravitas. Sansa shivered at the thought of being surrounded entirely by ocean, with no land in sight anywhere, and nothing but a tiny rock with a solitary lighthouse to live on.

After lunch, their conversation is mostly subdued by the biting wind that has risen up, howling past them with frost in its wake. Still, it allows Sansa an excuse to snuggle deep into Theon’s back, his warm cloak tickling her cheek. She almost drops into sleep before they stop to make camp for the night. The sun won’t set for another few hours, but they break to set up camp, due to the threat of snowflakes that could quickly become a blizzard. Fires need to be blazing merrily before that happens.

Theon jumps down from Smiler’s back, but Sansa chooses to stay seated until there in somewhere suitable to sit. A few men head into the sparse thicket of woods that had cropped up on their left as the day wore on, to cut down suitable firewood. Sansa strokes Smiler’s soft fuzzy ears as she watches the hubbub of camp being made. Arya and Bran stagger from the wheelhouse and immediately scurry off. Jon is helping to erect a tent, securing the base with a large hammer. Then gentle murmur of voices is cut through by a shout; a wild yell of terror.

Sansa is cantering toward the noise before her mind catches up with her insistent legs, urging Smiler on briskly. She sees the problem from several feet away; from where the men had ventured into the wood to collect firewood, a boar has burst free from the underbrush, and gone careening toward the camp. The men launch themselves from its path, but Theon is trapped in a dip of land, squatting beside a tiny creek, re-filling his waterskin. The boar charges him, tusks glinting with deadly intent, as Theon drops the waterskin, fumbling for the sword that is still strapped to his horse, beside Sansa’s thigh. His fingers find only a short dagger, and as he scrambles backward and falls, Sansa knows it will not be enough.

The first arrow skewers the boar’s shoulder; enough to make it squeal in pain and fury, but not enough to halt its charge. The next arrow hits a better mark. Straight through the boar’s eye, and into its horrid, piggy brain. Sansa pants in exertion, her heart beating wildly. Her third arrow is already drawn from the quiver and knocked against Theon’s bow, before she registers the boar falling to the ground, dead. For a long moment, the camp is deathly silent. Theon’s head whips toward his saviour, the look in his eyes proud and hungry when he sees Sansa still gripping his bow, but not shocked.

Not like Robb, who Sansa hears roaring “Seven Hells!” as she finally allows her fingers to grow slack. She unmounts from the horse without conscious thought; completely ignoring proper care for weaponry, as she lets Theon’s bow drop from her shaking fingers onto the damp ground.

“Sansa?” Father calls out to her in disbelief, but she doesn’t turn to him. Her eyes are only for Theon, who has clambered to his feet and up the grassy ledge toward her. She cannot stop her eyes from roaming over him, searching for injuries she knows cannot possibly be there.

Theon says not a word as Sansa launches herself at him, throwing her arms about his neck and dragging him close. His arms wrap around her back and squash her even closer, as she buries her face into his neck and just breathes, shaky and irregular and marred by terrified tears.


	15. Robb

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

He stood with a slack jaw as he took in the scene. The stuck pig, dead on the ground at Theon's feet, Sansa still holding the bow rigid in an iron grip. Her face a stone mask of determination, her own jaw set with merciless ire. She was not one to be trifled with, his sister, either by man or pork. Robb felt absolutely sure in that moment that Sansa was capable of felling all her enemies with that same calm, assured manner. The ghost of silence departed his ears, as Sansa let the bow slip from her fingers to land without care on the springy, fresh grass beside Theon's horse. Just like that, the illusion of her stoicism slipped away, like morning mist before the sun's fiery gaze, and Sansa was a small girl once more. Frightened and unsure, as she threw herself into Theon's arms, with no regard for decorum or propriety.

Only scant months ago, Robb would not have believed Sansa capable of expressing such genuine emotion, unhindered by etiquette. Now, he expected nothing less of his willful, brave sister, who had obviously been keeping more secrets than he imagined. At last, Robb had answers for his curiosity. He had oft wondered why Theon had been pensive and elusive of late. And where Sansa's sudden interest in his closest friend had come from.

It had been unkind of him to accuse Sansa of toying with Theon's affections. But it had seemed so clear that her intentions had not been serious. Now, he saw how ignorant he had been. Sansa must have been meeting with Theon in secret for months, to be able to use his bow with such confidence. Robb had no doubt it had been Theon teaching her. No one else would risk the wrath of Eddard Stark in such a manner as Theon dared to, on a regular basis.

There had once been a time when Robb would have shaken away the acute, unnerved tension seizing his bones. Dismissed his unquiet thoughts, and laughed at his own paranoia. But not now. Instead, Robb wondered now which was the falsehood; the feminine girl who simpered at chivalry and bestowed kind gifts upon her brothers, even the baseborn one... Or the hardened Northwoman, capable of wielding a bow in defence of her loved ones. Which sister was the truth? More importantly, could he ever trust Sansa again, knowing how well she could conceal herself from them all?


	16. Sansa VIII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa has never been especially forthright about her manipulations. She has maintained the notion that she could only achieve her goals by working in the shadows. To an extent, she still believed this. It is unlikely anyone would take her words of warning seriously regardless. Her wisdom would only be acknowledged in hindsight, and by then it would be too late. That didn’t stop her from providing pearls of wisdom and advice, in the high-minded manner of all sisters. Disguising her true warnings among more playful turns of phrase.

She has never undertaken a gamble of the like she is about to play now. Intellectually, she knows she holds all the cards. She is armed with surreptitious knowledge her father could never dream of, and as far as he will know, there is nothing to prevent her from using it. It is quite a tincture to swallow however, once she is facing  the stern, poe-faced guards outside her Father’s solar. And her father’s grim, unmoving expression as he bids her entry.

“You know why you are here, Sansa,” he begins brusquely. “You refused to explain your actions while we were on the road. I allowed it, for the sake of not revealing my evident lack of control over my own daughter’s education, to strangers. But the time for answers has come, and I will be satisfied.”

Sansa ducks her head, in a perfect mime of feminine piety and filial obedience. “I am sorry to have worried or embarrassed you, lord father. You must know that was never my intention.”

Ned Stark sighs, leaning back heavily in his chair. Despite her many years of practice remaining stoic under pressure, Sansa’s urge to fuss with her skirts or twist her fingers together is immense. She takes a deep breath to centre herself and continues to suppress the urge to shrink in fear. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

“Those are hardly my primary concerns, child.” Ned points out, but not ungently. “To become proficient with a bow takes skilled knowledge and practice. You cannot think me so simple-minded as to believe you could fell such a broad beast, without experience.”

“I know you are not a fool, Father!” Sansa protests, cringing from the shrill sound of her own voice. Just a fool for your honour, her private thoughts ponder.

“Then you will tell me how you came about your knowledge of the bow,” Father demands, “And why you believed you could learn this skill without seeking my permission.”

“I did not think you would grant it to me, had I asked,” Sansa mutters resentfully, risking a skittering glance across her father’s face.

“Then you knew full well the implications of your defiance. Sansa, I expect such willfulness from Arya and your brothers. I hold you to a higher standard, because you have never defied and disappointed me in such a manner before.” Lord Stark clucked, his eyes two uncompromising grey rocks.

Sansa’s throat burned with the injustice of it all, tears of anger prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“So, had I been a worse daughter, ill-mannered and unrefined, you would allow me more leave to act as I wish?” She snaps, momentarily forgetting herself. “That hardly seems fair, nor honourable.”

She speaks as the Lady of Winterfell again, spine straight and fists clenched, head high and chest thrust out, proud and unbroken. Ned Stark regards her as though he had never set eyes on her before, and in a certain manner, it is true. He had been long-dead before Sansa-that-is was forged in the fires of abuse and mistreatment.

“Perhaps your words have merit,” He concedes, “But I am still your lord father. You will grant me the respect afforded me as such, in both behaviour and speech.”

Sansa swallows down the words which expressed just exactly her thoughts of that. But Father seems to sense them anyway.

“Am I so unapproachable? That you would be frightened to even make your request?” He asks softly, steering the conversion in a less volatile direction, and succeeding in making hot shame squirm in her belly. But Sansa refused to be cowed and swayed into submission.

“Nay, Father.” She whispers, “But my need was so strong, that any delay or denial would have broken my heart, clean in twain.”

Ned frowned, reaching out to take her pale, ice-cold hands in between both of his own, warmed from several hours seated beside the fire as he went about his work. Sansa felt guilty then, for adding to his already considerable burden. He could not be expected to notice everything that went on in his household, when he already had so many issues to occupy his mind. That is why most lords employed little birds. Spies to watch and take note, and report on the movements within the keep and their wider lands.

“I just don’t understand, Sansa,” her father murmurs sweetly, giving her crown a gentle stroke, brushing back her fiery red hair, so that he could better see her face. “You have ever been a proper lady. Why did you believe yourself lacking in any manner, that you needed to add such a skill to your repertoire?”

Sansa worries her lip, unaccountably nervous, despite her earlier conviction about her chosen course of action. She has decided to be more active in her alteration of the events she knows from her previous life. A powerful ally was needed, and she has access to no man more powerful than her father.

At this juncture, he cannot be relied upon to follow her instruction, convinced by its veracity on its own merit. He would need to be convinced of each individual step, and she lacks both the patience and precious time for that. Sansa has no brute power to simply command him, but nor are tears her only weapon. She must rely on feminine wiles and manipulation.

“It was not so much the skill that was of import,” she shrugs, looking away from her father’s enquiring face, into the fireplace. She hopes she is accurately portraying innocent, girlish reluctance and bashfulness. It was difficult to tell, without watching her face in a looking-glass. Sansa has practiced appropriate levels of emotion to trot out when necessary. She would need every weapon at her disposal, if she were to convince her father of her sincerity, so she did not feel ashamed of herself for conducting herself so.

Her falsehoods are made in the service of something far greater than herself or her own petty ambitions. Their family was at stake, and she would not cower from the risky maneuvers she needed to make to ensure their lives, and happiness. For there was no point in securing their safety, if they were only to be miserable, or reduced to a state where death would be the preferable option. It was a huge responsibility to undertake, but her honour would allow her to take no other course. It was her duty to her family, even if it is to be a silent, unacknowledged one.

Though he did not know it, Father is about to become her unwilling accomplice, and he would ensure she achieved her important aims.

“What do you mean, it was not the skill at the bow that concerned you?” Father asks with another confused frown.

“Oh, Father. Have you never done one thing, with the aim of gaining something else?” Sansa trills, watching with satisfaction as something like understanding begins to grow in the creases of Lord Stark’s face.

She pulls one of her hands out from between his, to better emphasise her point. Singing her sweet songs of courtly love and maidenly virtue again. “Have you never wished to remain close to someone, so much that you would take up an interest, that would allow you an excuse to stay near?”

An uncomfortable Ned Stark reveals his dismay, with an uncontrollable twitch in his lower jaw. “Sansa, child, of whom are you speaking?”

Sansa blinks at him in feigned confusion. Pretending to be bemused that he would not already know.

“Why, Theon, of course.” She states sweetly, with a happy sigh. As though her father had merely forgotten a trifle. The dark cloud that shrouds her father would have revealed that no such thing was true, if she had actually been naive enough not to already know it.

Ned Stark rocks back into his chair, as if absorbing a physical blow. Though who else he might have suspected, Sansa could not have guessed.

“I doubt it will be a great surprise to anyone.” Sansa whispers with exaggerated flare. “Mother and I have been discussing wedding traditions upon the Iron Isles. I have already spoken with Robb at length about the responsibilities of courtship and marriage. Uncle Benjen even said he would give me a horse as a wedded gift; I do hope he will be allowed to come down from the Wall and deliver it himself.”

She chirps her birdsong with joyous maidenly cheer, watching as Ned Stark winces to be confronted with his own oblivious nature. He cannot know just how greatly Sansa is elongating the truth. Though she has given no outright deceptions as yet, it felt just as false.

It gives her no pleasure to humiliate her beloved father, but as no man can be trusted to behave as she would bid them without pressure, Sansa decides she has no other recourse.

“Sansa, Theon is not... a suitable choice for a match,” he starts softly, and mindful of her delicate, easily offended sensibilities.

Sansa’s answering frown was not entirely pretense. “Whatever do you mean? He is the son of a lord; I am a lord’s daughter. A perfectly natural alignment.”

“Written on parchment, it may be so.” Lord Stark agrees, “And yet, in actuality, the world is a much more complex place. There are delicate paths we must tread, to maintain peace and harmony.”

“But many families marry into the Houses of their old enemies, to secure new alliances and usher in a time of peace.” Sansa counters sensibly, in the matter of fact tone she has copied from Maester Luwin. “It is a well-known practice.”

“And those matches are usually arranged during the truce, by the warring factions. Not by the betrothed themselves.” Father argues.

Sansa laughs at him. “But we are no longer at war. An alliance, to prevent future strife, can only be a positive undertaking, Father. Especially as ours will be a love match.”

Ned’s face blanches white, and Sansa is sorry for it. She did not wish to cause him undue pain or heartache, regardless of his blundering ways. Her father is a good man, who does not wish cruelties upon even his greatest enemies. He always chose a clean death over torturing his prisoners, and was respected for it. She knows he does not deserve to fret over her wellbeing, nor suffer sleepless nights wondering just what Theon has done to her right under his nose.

“Sansa, I cannot deny your lessons have steered you well, and your intentions are no doubt pure.”

He cups her soft cheek in his sword-calloused hands as he continues: “My darling child, when you are older, I’ll make a match with someone who is worthy of you. You are a radiant light, and I know you’ll bring warmth and happiness to any household. You deserve a man who is brave, and gentle, and strong.”

Sansa allows him a moment to stare into her bright blue eyes and gauge the seriousness there. Then she lets him know her true mind.

“I have already found such a man for myself.” She pushes his hand away roughly, her stance strong again, as the former Lady of Winterfell steps back and resumes her battle-ready pose.

“I almost lost him to one large pig. Do not let yourself believe I will lose him to another,” She snarls wrathfully, picturing fat King Robert Baratheon. “I suggest you speak to Theon, Father. For I will marry him and no other.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, she turns in a flurry of skirts, scattering a heap of papers as she stomps out. Leaving only a plume of fluttering scrolls and unsatisfied queries in her wake.

*

Since returning in disgrace two nights ago, Sansa has been confined to her rooms when not attending meals or lessons. She revels in the opportunity to stalk away unhindered and unaccompanied. Though not publicly punished for her indiscretion, Father and Robb have taken to staring at Sansa as though she were an uninvited stranger at a feast. The latter spending several minutes simply gawping at her each time he caught sight of her. As though each glance at her was bringing back vivid, incredulous memories.

Arya seemed to swing wildly between angry disbelief and begrudging respect. Sansa’s secret interest was apparently an exciting activity worth merit. But that she had openly defied the rules, then flouted her abilities without apparent punishment was too much for Arya to stand. She turned purple with rage whenever anyone mentioned it. And since they could all speak of little else, she spent her days flush with a particularly unflattering shade of puce. Sansa was ignored as though she carried the pox. Though she was attempting to foster a better relationship with her sister in the long run, momentarily Sansa was glad for the distance.

She had needed quiet and clarity to reformulate her plans, now that a secret she had never intended to reveal was so widely known. Jon will was the only one not pestering her about it. He was impressed but not shocked, and Sansa suspected he had stumbled across her secret some time before and kept her faith, even from her. It warmed her heart to think that their bond had strengthened so. She expected him to keep Arya’s secrets thus, but that he would do so for her was a wonderful surprise.

Mother, after initially welcoming her home with open arms, was now refusing to speak to her. But her eyes flashed with fury whenever she caught sight of Jon. She had decided he was Sansa’s teacher, and would not allow Sansa close enough to ally her suspicions. Dropping the usual pretense of household harmony, Sansa had bluntly told Jon to stay out of Mother's path for the foreseeable future. In truth, Sansa now felt the sooner Jon could be settled into training for a future trade, the better. He doesn’t deserve Mother's wrath.

Theon had remained mostly silent on the matter, save for complimenting her quick draw loudly in public, and breathing his true, incredulous praise into her hair; "You saved me, you brilliant girl," as he swept her into a hug.

“Good thing I had you take on those squirrels, eh?” He muttered while passing her a plate of bread rolls to dip in her eel stew.

“I see you finally cured yourself of the need to take a sennight to aim,” he chuckled as he passed her a water skin on the road home.

“Already bloodied at such a tender age. The Islands could use more women like you.” He declared as he passed her in the draughty corridor, his long spindly fingers trailing across the worn bricks of stone.

“My fierce defender. I thought the Warrior had taken to wearing skirts for a moment, back there,” he teased, before pressing a kiss to her hand, helping her down from Smiler’s back.

She needed his joviality now, to lift her spirit and remind her why her determination was so important. _I know he cares for me. Even if he does not yet love me, it is highly possible he could grow to,_ she tried to reassure herself, knowing that the gnawing pit of fear biting at her stomach would not leave her be until she heard him accept the betrothal from his own lips.

He would be furious, she knew. For pushing a betrothal on him, circumventing his chance to woo, court and delight her by asking her himself. Still, her only hope was that she had not misunderstood the depth of his feelings, or that he would feel so offended by her interference that he would deny the match. Her machinations would not stand up against his defiance. Not least because she knew his protest would truly damage her fragile heart.

*

She finds him in the glass gardens. Before they left for White Harbour, they sometimes took a turn about the gardens together, arm in arm. Sansa can name most of the flowers, and they would make a game of it, Theon pointing out the more exotic specimens to test her.

She is making an effort to learn the properties and tinctures of the plants which grow there. Maester Luwin is a font that can only be tapped so many times for knowledge. Luckily, there are books in her mother's solar on the subject. It is not unusual to find Sansa seated by the fire, her nose in some ancient herbology tome. If anyone bothered to challenge her about the title, she has devised a lie about the secret meaning of flowers, but so far no one has noticed. They simply assume she is enchanted by some rosy history of knightly chivalry and forbidden love.

Those half-forgotten stories stir in her memory now, as she finds Theon stood, his back to her, beneath a mistletoe liana, hanging from a holly bough. He cuts a dashing, romantic figure, with his dark clothes silhouetted against the vibrant green. He turns at her approach, her dainty steps and rippling pink skirts disturbing the leaf litter with a light rustle.

The dying light catches his mischievous eyes at such an angle to make them twinkle and shine. He reaches out for her, a silent invitation, likely offering to take her hand in a chaste kiss. Unbidden, Sansa launches herself into his arms. She feels him lurch precariously for a moment as he absorbs the unexpected weight. Then he wraps her in his warm arms, his cool cheek pressed against her own. She turns to nuzzle her nose toward his ear, allowing herself a moment to daydream, casting them in the leading roles in mummer's show of the pastoral idyll. They are the springtime lovers, flush with hope and longing, before winter will cruelly rend them apart.

 _Forgive me, my love,_ Sansa thinks.

“Whatever for?” Theon murmurs in reply.

Sansa carefully untangles herself, just enough to lean back, balancing on his clasped arms. She tries to hide her surprise and bashful worry at speaking such things aloud in his hearing, but Theon’s expression is unmoved. He is not caught unawares by her proclamation of affection, and though it warms her heart, it chills her cockles. She had scarcely let herself to believe it, yet alone acknowledge it. Only when her hand was forced, did she fling open the stable door, allow her heart to gallop away freely. That Theon could read her so well, and understand the depth of her infatuation, is both frightening and wondrous.

 _What else has he noticed without speaking of,_ she ponders. _How deeply does his own affection run? Will he defend me and fight for me, or allow me to fall by the wayside and leave me in a cloud of dust, when he realises a youthful dalliance is not what I am looking for?_

Before she has the chance to answer him they are interrupted, and not by a messenger from her father, as she anticipated. Instead, Domeric Bolton gives an awkward cough when she whirls her head to face the intruder. Theon stiffens, moving back as if to relinquish her, but Sansa will not have it. She tightens her grip on his shoulders, anchoring him to her, pleased when he chooses not to struggle. He could easily free himself, but instead remains placid in her arms.

From the corner of her eye she sees him bare his teeth menacingly at Ser Domeric, who holds his ground, mildly alarmed.

“I beg your pardon,” He says stiffly, “The interruption was not intended.”

Sansa nods graciously, not trusting her voice at this juncture. He heart is already lurching wildly in her chest, her stomach dropping to rest somewhere alongside her knees.

“Lady Sansa, are you... quite well?” Ser Domeric enquires, despite his obvious discomfort with the situation.

May the old gods bless him, for being brave enough to ask, like a true knight. He will not leave a lady in a compromised position before checking that she is there of her own volition. Sansa is pleased to learn it, though she wishes it were in other circumstances.

Sansa looks back to Theon then, squeezing her arms together where they hang about his neck. His hands answer in kind, pressing into the delicate pink material of the dress, against her back.

“I have scarcely been better, Ser.” She replies, raising to the tips of her toes to nose at Theon’s stubbled jaw. He is still turned away from her, glaring at their unwelcome companion.

“Ah,” Domeric gives out an almost involuntary inflection of understanding. “I see. I shall take my leave of you, then. Again I offer my apologies.”

“Verily, none are needed,” Sansa says, “Good day, Ser.”

Summarily dismissed, he slinks away near silently. Truthfully, they would not have paid him any more mind of he had set about destroying plants in a thwarted rage. His rival seen off for the nonce, Theon drops his head to press his forehead against hers, their breath mingling as they inhale as one.

At length, Theon whispers reluctantly; “That was foolish.You should have protested and had me scolded for taking liberties.”

“Never,” Sansa promises, equally hushed. “My liberties are yours to take.”

He emits a queer noise at that, a strangled yelp, midway between a groan and a whimper. Sansa doesn't have much time to consider it, as no sooner has he made it, Theon crushes the final scant space between them and captures her lips with his mouth. It is her first kiss in this life; the only kiss that has ever mattered.

She moans and he holds her impossibility close, moving his lips sensually over her’s, until she opens her mouth and their kiss can deepen. Her fingers tangle in his freshly washed hair after he runs his through her long locks and angles her head where he wants her. She giggles when their noses brush and bump, swallowing his chuckles as their lips meet again and again in kisses without end.


	17. Catelyn

THE CAPRICIOUS TRAVELLER

Somehow, the return of her children from White Harbour was not the great joy she anticipated all week. Sansa was slipping away from her, and Catelyn did not understand why. Her sweet girl had become almost uncouth, showed little regard for Septa Mordane's advice, and no longer attended upon Catelyn herself in the Sept, so they could pray together.

At first Catelyn suspected the slipping standards were a mere trifle, a folly of youthful exuberance that would soon be rectified. Sansa was ever mindful of her duty. But her behaviour only decreased. Her lessons were attended punctually, but Sansa showed the bare minimum of interest, and hurried away as soon as they were complete. Rather than linger to ask questions or converse with her friends as she ought. If her work were not excellent, better, in fact, than it had been before her bout of fever, then Catelyn could take her concerns to her husband. Without evidence of mistakes and poor progress, Catelyn could not give voice to her suspicions. Ned was like most men, he would not take action without proof. Usually, Catelyn approved of that quality in her lord husband, but not when it was to the detriment of their children. She was sure the bastard was influencing Sansa somehow, altering her behaviour. 

Sansa was no longer easy to draw into genteel conversation, and now Ned had revealed Sansa's secret passion for weaponry! It was not to be borne! It must have been the bastard that lured her into the dirty, base and unnatural acts of female arms training. But Catelyn would no longer stand idly by while her obedient child slipped away from her.

She wrote letters to her Father and sister with her concerns, awaiting their advice before she took decisive action. But that did not mean that she would not formulate plans of her own. Sansa deserved a better life than the one she would reap, if she continued to sow in this particular field. Catelyn knew her duty was to her family above all else, and she would see it done.


	18. Sansa IX

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa was not entirely sure of her feelings for Theon. She cared for him, naturally, and knew they made a handsome match, visually. She could happily admit his face was fair, his entire countenance pleasing to the eye. Theon has a far more rugged, manly look, than the fussy, over-clean beauty Joffrey hid his true cruelty behind. Theon played on his looks also, to charm and beguile. The difference between them, was that he had never been a truly malicious man. Theon liked to play tricks and jape with Robb, sometimes at the expense of her and her siblings. But his games were not sadistic like Ramsay's or Joffrey’s, and he would be horrified if any of them had gotten truly hurt as a result.

Intellectually, they are evenly paired; they share enough interests to have witty repertoire. Equally, Sansa’s love of feminine arts and Northern culture, versus Theon’s love of the sea and Ironborn history, diverges enough, that they both compliment and contrast one another. It is not love, not yet, but it has a solid foundation, a healthy seed that if properly planted could grow into genuine affection and deep love. They could be strong together, Sansa knows. She needs only to convince her family of it.

Father and Mother will be the hardest take to battle alone, without support. She understands the need for allies better than any of her peers. Of the youths in Winterfell, only she is blooded and tested in war. She is the one who has lived through the War of the Five Kings. Even Domeric has only played at warfare in tourneys and training. And she doubts her little indiscretion with Theon will put him off pursuing her hand.

Youthful dalliances were often chaste, and she knows Lord Roose Bolton will have instilled the importance of securing the North, through her, into his heir. Domeric Bolton is probably cursing his bad luck, having discovered that winning her over is going to be more difficult than anticipated. Sansa supposes he went straight to the rookery, to report his progress after catching sight of them. To reassure his father of his renewed conviction, now that he had a challenger to depose.

But the Boltons would never again rule the North, and especially not through her. Who knew what heinous acts may befall Father and Robb, if she married Domeric, and provided an heir? The temptation to kill all her brothers and rule through her Bolton son would be too much for Roose Bolton, that much is evident from all she knows of him. He will always be a turncloak in the making, but she will not be the one to provide the knife for Roose to hold at her brother’s throats.

She needs Robb’s assistance. Even if Father never grants them permission, Robb’s support may go a long way towards swaying him. Letting Father know that Robb is mature enough to make his own decisions, free from his influence, is almost as vital. If Father dies, Robb could be counted upon to keep his word, if he had already lent his support to the match.

She ponders all of this, in the nursery with little Rickon in her arms. The Manderly sisters have returned to their rooms to sort dresses, which Sansa declined to join in with. They still have some time before the feast, but the poor weather has confined them all inside. Arya had run away from Septa Mordane before she could be trapped into an extra sewing lesson, and for once Sansa had followed her. They had run laughing through the stone hallways, footfalls clattering loudly, cheeks flushed pink with breathlessness. Eventually, they found their way to the playroom, where Bran was reading from his book of Knightly tales, Rickon listening attentively. Old Nan is snoring in her rocking chair, her knitting hanging precariously from her withered fingertips.

Sansa had scooped Rickon up with hugs and kisses, and settled him in her arms so they could listen together. Arya had sighed heavily at the lack of entertainment, but had flopped down in a messy heap beside them, too tired after their long, impromptu run, to scamper off again.

After enduring some tales of the Ninepenny Kings, Arya snatches control of the book from Bran and begins poking about. Muttering about Daenys the Dreamer, and the birth of the Targaryen dynasty. Luckily, Arya’s attention is divided, when Robb’s head appears round the nursery door, and the book is utterly forgotten when Jon and Theon spill in after him.

“Daenys had a prophetic dream. Do you know what the future holds in store for you, Rickon?” Sansa asks her baby brother, who turns to her. He is delighted to be singled out, even while his elder brothers steal the room’s attention, as usual.

“Brilliant circumstance.” Sansa declares to Rickon, loud enough to catch Theon’s attention, though truthfully he was already focused on her, yet trying not to show it.

Sansa continues; “You have the fortune to be the youngest son of a great lord, Rickon; you can adventure and learn a chosen trade, given leeway to follow a path of your own devising. You could become an unruly knight, like our uncle Ser Brynden the Blackfish, or a seafaring merchant, off to discover mysteries across the Narrow Sea.” She tickles Rickon’s tummy as she states such, delighting in his squirms of laughter.

“Mayhaps you will join one of Jon and Arya’s expeditions to Essos or Ibben, far across the Shivering Sea.” She sees the other occupants of the nursery turn to her, taking an interest in her words now also, and her tone becomes more serious.

“Jon is going to become a sailor, you see, no doubt a Captain of his own vessel someday. He might be Robb’s representative when our brother becomes the Lord of Winterfell. Then he could broker important deals with the Iron Bank, who are notoriously fickle. But Jon wouldn’t take any of their nonsense would he? He would be wise to their tricks.” Rickon nods seriously in agreement, though he cannot truly understand her words.

“Jon might become a knight or be granted a lordship for his good deeds, and marry a beautiful Essoi maiden.” She sees Jon blush, grateful but embarrassed by her faith in him.

“And me?” Arya interrupts. “You said I’d go with Jon too?”

By now they are all invested in Sansa’s words, her playful suppositions. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself to slip real truth into her words.

“Arya is going to become a great explorer, and travel much; perhaps even more than Jon. Maybe she’ll even brave the wilds of Sothoryos, and ride on a zorse during her escapades. Or find out exactly what or who lives in Ulthos. She might learn exotic arts across the Narrow Sea, like how to be a Braavosi water dancer.”

“What about me?” Bran pipes up. Robb leans over to ruffle his hair, giving him a playful nudge for his keenness.

“You’ll be fostered with some great knight, and learn all his ways.” Sansa predicts, hoping to all the gods that her words here will be accurate, and come to pass. “Until your skill surpasses even your teacher. Then you’ll be knighted yourself, and roam the Seven Kingdoms, winning glory and acclaim in tourneys everywhere.”

Bran wriggles in his seat, enchanted. Jon nods at him when he catches his brother’s eye, confirming Sansa’s words.

“Eventually you’ll make your way North, and fight alongside Robb in real battle.” She adds. “You’ll be lord of your own keep, naturally, but mayhaps Edmure Tully, a notoriously unreliable fool, will die without issue. Then you’ll be the Lord of Riverrun and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, when our grandfather dies.”

There are some surprised faces at that, when her predictions take a darker edge. Robb blinks several times, his mouth dropping open as though to protest. Theon elbows him in the ribs instead, pushing forward so he can be closer to Sansa, and ask;

“And you, Sansa? Where will you be?”

She smiles beatifically, her voice dropping a little lower, as if her next words are only for him.

“I will travel also, but though I will learn much on the road, I doubt I will leave Westeros. I will leave the North though, for the Iron Islands. For I will marry a lord there. And I will keep his home and hearth warm, and fill it full of laughter and babes. He will trust me to rule his keep in his stead, when he goes to war. Mayhaps he will send me back to Winterfell for my protection sometimes, but I will defend either home with my bow and my wits.”

“The Iron Islands, Sansa?” Robb repeats, dumbfounded, his gaze flickering between her and Theon (who is still leaning forwards into her space), in rapid succession.

“What about Robb?” Bran breaks the moment with innocent, childish curiosity.

Robb’s gaze settles on her, heavy and resigned. Mayhaps he has accepted there is little he can do to prevent the bond between her and Theon from growing thicker by the minute.

“Yes, Sansa,” he asks, “What great tales do you have for me?”

“Hmm,” Sansa pretends to think it over. What she is about to do will change the course of all their lives, but she has accepted her accelerated pace. Her duty is to House Stark and the North. She cannot wait for death to fall upon them with icy hands before changes are made. Jon did not wrestle freedom from Daenerys in her past life; there is no reason to believe he will manage it in this one.

She leans close to Rickon’s chubby face, speaking in an exaggerated hushed tone, making sure the others can still hear. “Robb is going to be a great King. The greatest King in Westeros for centuries.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Robb’s head snap towards her, the small, reluctant smile that had been forming on his face becoming fixed and brittle.

“Ah, Sansa!” He moans, “everyone else gets likely tales, yet mine is a jape. I’m no Prince!”

“Maybe so,” Sansa concedes, fixing him with her steely gaze. “Nethertheless, you’ll be the first King in the North since Torrhen knelt.”

There is amused silence at first, but when Sansa don’t blink and titter, chiding him for thinking her serious, everyone shuffles uncomfortable with her treasonous words.

“Sansa, you shouldn’t say such things.” Jon warns, but she ignores him. The time has come to be bold. The Lannisters gained much from their risk-taking, the Tyrells losing more for never going quite far enough. Sansa will not repeat their mistakes.

“But I am being perfectly serious. Think on it, Robb. Why should we be ruled by some pompous warmonger in the South? Robert Baratheon’s interest in the North begins and ends with his regard for Father.” She sits up, her eyes bright with fervour.

“Jon Arryn may be named Hand, but he is King in all but name.” She carries on, “Father says King Robert never attends small council meetings, instead spending his time hunting, drinking and whoring. And Jon Arryn is not a young man. He won’t live much longer, and once he is gone, Robert won’t know or care what goes on in the North.”

“The North is not a rich region, not like the gold and silver mines in the West, so Tywin Lannister won’t much care either.” Theon chips in, in a tone that says he can’t quite believe they’re discussing this.

Sansa beams, grateful for the suppport. “There won’t be much protest if we secede from the Iron Throne, and without dragons, who is there to stop us?” She says.

“The might of the Reach and West?” Robb suggests, aghast. “Sellswords from Essos, and any Northman that wants his house named Warden of the North in my stead. I’d be the Stark that lost Winterfell.”

Sansa snorts, unladylike. “Nonsense. The North, fight against the Starks, for Southern kings?”

Jon and Theon both bark with incredulous laughter at the thought of it, then stare at one another in horror, for inadvertently agreeing on something.

“Consider the North, as a free and independent Kingdom, tied through blood to the Iron Islands and the Riverlands, and Aunt Lysa in the Vale. We could maintain trade with them, and if you build a fleet of warships at White Harbour and Sea Dragon Point, you’ll be the first King with power at sea since Bran the Burner.”

“Sansa, this is madness.” Robb chides, sending Theon and Jon a black look.

“Is it? Father, Robert Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy won’t live forever.” Sansa cajoles. “When they are gone, if you have already placed your family strategically, think of all you could achieve. Jon to broker deals and trade across the Narrow Sea. Give Theon, your friend and brother, leave to take back the Driftwood Crown and Kingdom of Salt and Rock. Since you are as brothers; there’ll be no need for more war with the Iron Isles, if they raid South of the Riverlands, against our common enemies.”

“Two additional Kings in Westeros? Sansa, please,” Robb scoffs, but Theon says nothing, his eyes widening in shock and something like hunger.

“What of it? Change is always inevitable.” She dismisses, “And do you think the Riverlands would want Edmure Tully, the floppy fish, if they could have Bran instead? If Bryden the Blackfish trains him, Bran will know their ways and be considered an adequate Riverlander. That leaves Rickon, Arya and I.” She ticks off their names on her fingers.

“Help me convince Father to betrothe me to Theon, and you tie our kingdoms in blood. To any grumbling bannermen you can say I’ll be your eyes and ears on the Islands. To angry Ironborn, the prospect that a Greyjoy might one day rule the North, if you have no heirs, would mollify them. Even if we know such a thing will never come to pass. For there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“And you’d be happy, marrying Theon... for politics?” Jon asks, sceptially.

Theon’s face is carefully blank, lips pressed firm in silence. Sansa laughs, her eyes gentle as she surveys the face of the man she hopes to love someday.

“Of course. I’ll look very fetching in black and gold, I should think. The kraken would sit just right cross my waist or shoulders.” She japes, sending Theon a wink. Jon doesn’t seem convinced, but it is not Jon whose testimony will carry weight with Father.

“And you’d make yourself Queen of the Iron Islands in the doing so,” Arya snarks snidely, after absorbing everything with disturbed silence thus far, peppered by the odd disgruntled noise. Sansa ignores her barbed tone. In her arms, Rickon shifts and wriggles, and she squeezes him in a soft hug, before ruffling his tumbling curls.

“Train Rickon to be your heir, Robb.” She recommends, “That way, if you have no sons, he can inherit your crown, with Bran already installed in the Riverlands. Unless, Bran, you’d prefer to be King of the wintery North, instead of Lord Paramount of the grassy plains and rich waters in the Riverlands. You may fall in love with the place, once you are fostered there. It doesn’t matter, as long as you promise to accept Robb’s decree, and never go to war against Rickon over the Winter Crown of the North. I see no reason we cannot spend our days in peace and harmony, once the fight for our independence from the Iron Throne is over.”

She reaches forwards, gripping Robb’s hand in her own paler fingers. Despite himself, he seems enchanted by her words, the vision of a future he never could have imagined alona and unaided, now painted irrevocably on the inside of his eyelids. He will never be able to escape it, she knows. Her words will whisper to him in the dark of his dreams, compelling him against his will.

“Discord comes from confusion.” Sansa warns them, but Robb most of all. “It is what tears Kingdoms apart. When Father dies, have your bannermen swear fealty to you, personally, as Lord of Winterfell, but not Warden of the North, not as a protector for the Iron Throne. That way you break no oaths, if you never personally swear yourself to any Baratheon kings. Later, you can swear them to your chosen heir when he comes of age. We never want another situation such as the Dance of Dragons, even if we may be upon our own personal Hour of the Wolf.”

Robb is now gawping at her with that familiar look, the one that asks who has replaced his sister with this mature woman, able to wield her words and a bow, like a true warrior.

“Not sure I’d be able to rule the islands without such a genius political strategist for a Queen,” Theon declares suddenly. “You’d best allow me to marry her Robb. You know I’d take good care of her, and be a true and honest husband.”

He speaks with a jolly turn of phrase, in a light tone, but Sansa knows Robb can see the longing in Theon’s eyes. They’d be brothers by law then, as Robert Baratheon was so desperate to be with Ned Stark that he tore apart a whole continent for it, all in pursuit of his pride. Sansa wonders then, if Theon would be capable of the same.

“You must not speak of this, of course. Not unless you frame it as a jape. We would all be killed in our beds if the Baratheons and Lannisters caught wind of it before we are ready for them to know.” She cautions, glaring at them all so that they understand the truth of her warning.

“By the gods, Sansa, how did you come up with this?” Robb asks, still stupified.

She shrugs. She can never tell them the truth. Her stunning words will be enough to occupy them for weeks, she knows.

“What do you believe I am doing, when I read songs and tales of sweet maidens and fair princes? Those tragic lovelorn tales, where the brave knight dies fighting for a Kingdom he doesn’t even have a stake in?” She counters, pleased with their guilty blushes. She knows they thought her vapid, filling her head with nonsense. She does not blame them, for it was true once.

It will never be true again.


	19. Robb II

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

He cannot shake the idea from his unquiet mind. Sansa's words are honeyed poison, syrupy sugar slipping down his throat to drag him to his demise. There are too many factors to consider, too many variables which could tip the scales and cast them all into the flames below. If Robb loses the North in persuit of some arbitrary title he does not need, he will be the worst fool that ever lived.

It would be different if his people were suffering under the yoke of oppression. If they were enslaved and indebted to the South and its extravagance. But they are already an independent people, left mostly to their own devices. What do they have to rail against?

 _It would take a war to unite them,_ Robb thinks. _Some heinous plot of Southern treachery uncovered, which I could use to bolster my own popularity while simultaneously making the case to separate our people from the fickle, vainglorious people of the South._

But these are all idle dreamings, for how could he ever anticipate when such an upheaval was about to take place? He would never aim to orchestrate such unrest. But if Sansa was right, their people would have a better life if he took advantage of such a situation, if it ever arose. He need not push for it to happen, nor even hope for it. Yet if Robb placed his family in strategic places, as Sansa had suggested, he would perhaps sleep more soundly at night. Knowing he was primed to exploit any circumstance that could weigh the scales in his favour.

It was the only responsible course of arction, and Robb had never been one to shirk his duties. It was not grasping, social climbing, if Robb placed his pieces on the cyvasse board; it was preparation for his enemy to seat himself in the opposite chair and consent to play.


	20. Sansa X

THE LONE TRAVELLER

It seems that whatever Domeric wrote to his father was not enough to convince him, for as they break their fast, Father announces Lord Bolton’s intention to visit them in time for the feast. He should arrive soon, much to Mother's ire, as yet more guest rooms, inadequately heated, will have to be prepared. Even after all this time in the North, Mother forgets that Northmen are used to the temperatures. They do not require the rooms best heated by the hot springs. Robb is confident enough to point this out, rolling his eyes behind Mother’s back when she snaps unhappily at him in reply. Mother has a short temper, in these days of late summer.

Sansa  expected this circumstance, having understood that any father would wish to see his heir after a long separation. She had hoped she would have more time to prepare for more Boltons invading her home, but this is what comes of rash action. She had not intended to be caught with Theon. Now she must deal with life as she finds it, not as she wishes it to be.

The Manderly girls are in a flutter, after reaffirming that Domeric has no sisters. No doubt pleased to learn they will have no challengers for Robb. Robb himself seems glad of their attention, though Sansa has seen him grow frustrated a time or two, when he attempts to break free and spend time with Theon or Jon.

Wynafryd enjoys games of cyvasse, which Robb can only stand for half the match, before he becomes terribly bored. Jon is a more patient player, and regularly finds himself dragged into matches. However, Jon himself shrinks away from the ladies, especially Wynafryd, whom he seems to find overbearing in the extreme. Across the cyvasse board he finds it easier to deal with them. He can distract himself with the pieces and his strategy, and ignore their probing questions. The Manderly heir is growing frustrated by their lack of affection, Sansa believes. No doubt annoyed that she has wrapped neither of them around her finger like a sock puppet yet.

Theon is the only one who openly scorns them, especially Wylla, whose choice of hair colour he has publicly disparaged. More than once he has rescued Sansa from the girl's twittering. Mainly by accosting her and leading her away, without acknowledging or inviting the other girls to partake in whatever activity he is taking her to. Now that Sansa’s archery is no secret, she has started practicing in public, skewering the hay targets under Theon’s careful, proud eye. Wynafryd seems increasingly incensed by this disregard. She eventually loses decorum and questions Sansa herself about it.

“Do you not find the Greyjoy boy most terribly ill-mannered, Lady Sansa?” She asks, a well-tailored eyebrow raising archly. “He seems very possessive of your time. How dreadfully bored you must be, humoring him so often. It really is too good of you, to put up with him.”

Sansa offers her a placid yet bland smile. Affecting an unknowing air.

“I’m sure I don't know quite what you mean, Lady Wynafryd. Theon and myself share a great many interests. We are firm friends.”

Wylla hums disbelievingly, whirling around to face Sansa from where she has been surveying herself in the mirror, holding a pearl necklace to her pink throat.

“Just friends, Lady Sansa?” She says with emphasis, and a pointed smirk on her face.

“Well, since you ask,” Sansa murmurs coyly, ducking her head as though in shyness, “my family secretly views Theon as another Stark son. I know the North considers him just a lowly hostage here, the son of an enemy House. But in truth, Theon is Robb’s greatest friend, along with our brother Jon. He would never allow his life to be forfeit for Lord Balon’s actions.”

She sees her words have startled her guests, for Wynafryd sits up straight from where she has been lounging gracefully and shares a significant look with her younger sister. Sansa is not discomfited by this, having observed how Theon is treated by the Winterfell households and their visiting bannermen, and the lack of interest he garnered in New Castle. Their blatant upset at disparaging a potential key ally is no surprise to her. She can well imagine the scorn Theon received, fighting beside Robb in a place of honour many Northmen would have coveted for themselves. No wonder he was so easy to push from the fold. Why continue to fight for people who disrespect your efforts at every turn?

“Truthfully, Robb could feel no deep regard for anyone who dismissed Theon outright, though he may feign friendship. Robb takes note of such things.” Sansa says airily, as she holds up a belt decorated with sea glass and moonstones, against the green lace dress the sisters had presented her as a gift.

She acts as though her words should have no impact, but uses her position by the looking glass to watch as Wynafryd’s countenance becomes more calculating, whilst Wylla’s face crumples in defeat. Of the two, she had been more vocal of her dislike of Theon, in retaliation for the insults to her ugly hair. Sansa sees a ripple of determination settle into her jaw; no doubt she, like Domeric Bolton, will not be so easily swayed from her goal.

It does not matter: Sansa has already warned Robb to take note of the way the sisters treat those they are not invested in impressing. He has not been awed their manners so far, though they are polite to servants and not rude or overly spoilt, despite their fine clothes. He will not be fooled if their attitude toward Theon abruptly changes.

*

Jon corners Sansa after she has been praying in the godswood. Praying she had not overplayed her hand, revealing so much of her strategy so early in the game. At the time, she reasoned that steps needed to be taken, even now, to ensure that her brothers would go along with her intentions, if they understood the reasoning behind it. If Bran refused to go to the Riverlands, or Jon decided to take the Black again, or Robb became embroiled in a romance with a Manderly girl, it would plunge a knife in her plans.

She cannot be everywhere at once, and it would drive her to the brink of insanity if she attempted to try. Even if they think her plans mad, they will linger in the recesses of the boy’s minds, at least. Here, at the beginning, it might be enough to stop them making any rash decision that might make Sansa’s vision of the future dissolve. It is easier than trying to ferret out private plans and elbow her way into discussions she should not be privy to. This way, they all take some of the responsibility for the future, themselves.

So far, they have taken her warnings seriously. Bran talks of nothing but being a knight, but never mentions becoming Lord of Riverrun. Though he has taken to extolling the deeds of his knightly Uncle, the Blackfish, and following Mother around, slinging questions of him at her. Though Bran is probably her favoured child, especially now that Sansa is in disgrace, even Mother seems harassed by the prolonged attention. Still, it keeps her distracted, and out of Jon’s path. Bran’s high voice carries, boisterous with youth, and Jon can easily scramble out of sight if he hears them coming.

Robb spends his every free hour in the training yard, whenever he can avoid the Manderly ladies. A great King is usually a great warrior, after all, particularly if he aims on winning his Kingdom by conquest. Robb spars frequently with Domeric, being slower to adopt his techniques than Jon. The gap between heir and natural son is no longer so obvious anymore, Robb setting aside his pride to ask for assistance, even from his supposed younger half-brother. Jon is a good teacher; Sansa well remembers him leading the training during the Second Long Night. He had lots more experience then, having trained Black Knights for years.

Yet Jon is far more confident in himself and his place at Winterfell, now that Sansa has taken to pointing out his worth and trustworthiness so often. He seeks her out, sure of his welcome, in a way he never would have in their first childhood together.

Now, when he corners her after her prayers before the heart tree, Sansa is surprised when he leads her to Arya’s room. Their small sister punching hm in the stomach in dubious welcome.

“I said I didn't even care!” Arya yells, in reference to some previous argument Sansa is not aware of.

“Oof,” Jon wheezes, “Not here. Inside.”

They scurry into the haphazard room, Arya’s belongings scattered about much less artfully than in Wylla’s room. Sansa settles on the reasonably clutter-free bed, noting the finery of the furs. Jon needs some thicker, better furs on his own bed, she decides. She will request the material to work on in her next lesson.

Patiently, Sansa waits until Arya finishes chewing on her lips and fingers and eventually blurts out;

“You didn't say what would happen to me. Not really. If I’m lucky, when Robb’s Lord, he’ll let me on Jon’s ship. But what if Father's married me to some lordling twit by then?” Arya demands, clenching her fists.

Sansa blinks, then smiles softly, “Arya, Father hasn't even secured a betrothal for Robb yet, and he’ll be of age in only a few years. You still have plenty of time.”

Arya snorts, unconvinced.

“The boys all get to be grand lords and knights, you’ll be Queen, and I’ll be made to marry the Smalljon and have giants for babes!” Arya wails, before giving her bedpost an angry kick. Jon hurries forward to scoop her up and prevent her from another. The two of them join Sansa sitting on Arya’s bed.

“Nonsense,” Sansa chides, “the Smalljon can have Alys Karstark or Meera Reed, or some other girl nearer in age. You should be more worried about Riverlands lords, hoping to curry favour with Bran, and place their sons in his seat, if he has no heirs.”

“Urgh!” Arya groans, her head dropping into her hands in despair.

Sansa takes pity on her then, and stops playing her silly japes. She knows that will not come to pass; Arya would scarcely allow it.

“You need not fear, Arya.” Sansa soothes, “Robb has Bran, Rickon and I for alliances. Bran could marry Shireen Baratheon, for Stormlander support, or a Vale woman. Rickon can take a Riverlander or perhaps a girl from the Fingers. Maybe simply a Northern bannerman’s daughter. Theon and I may even have babes then, that could be betrothed to a cousin, if Robb or Jon have children also, and we feel the need to keep our legacy secure. We have many options. You need not be pressed into a marriage you do not want.”

Both of them stare at her then, and she well knows why. Everything she had said goes against all they have been taught of Westerosi customs, and the Seven Pointed Star, as taught by Septa Mordane. There, it is always the women bartered in pacts to secure Kingdoms, land, trade and heritage. Only in Dorne are the circumstances slightly different.

A thought of Dorne gives Sansa pause. Oberyn Martell’s reputation has reached this far, even at the age she is now. In her own time, his fatal fight with the Mountain, in pursuit of justice for his long dead sister, is legendary. Soldiers waiting for battle to break out are little better than smallfolk fishwives for gossip. Sansa heard much walking through the encampments with Jon, during their campaign. Tyrion Lannister told her about Oberyn’s death though, speaking in his usual flippant manner about dark and ugly deeds, to disguise the true disgust and horror he felt.

Mayhaps she ought to spend more of her time filtrating the information she gathered on the dragon Queen’s allies. Sansa intends to steal them out from underneath her, after all. She had thought it too early to spread her influence across the Seven Kingdoms, but hasn’t she already vowed to be more bold? The thought had her rising, gathering her skirts about her, so that she may make haste to her own chamber. She has clean forgotten Arya’s woe, until one look at her sister’s uncertain face has her re-evaluating her priorities.

“Do you mean it?” Arya demands, eyes big and bright with hope or just tears.

“I promise,” Sansa says, stooping to drop a kiss to her sister’s unruly hair. “Besides, I do not think some foppish lordling, keen to prove himself, would suit you at all.”

“No?”

“Decidedly not,” Sansa says, “I rather think a mature, solid man, dependable, but one who can keep up with you, yet will allow you to go your own way- that is the kind of man you need. Someone reliable and dutiful, akin to Jon. A tradesman, I should think. Someone practical. A merchant or soldier; yes, a man of action. A blacksmith, mayhaps?”

A wicked idea comes to her then. Yes, it is time she made a visit to the rookery, and reached out to other Kingdoms.

*

Although she will not see it, in a few days Sansa will cause Stannis Baratheon to grind his teeth obsessively, and clench his fists, the vein in his balding head throbbing as he reads her missive.

_Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships and Lord of Dragonstone,_

_I write to you my lord, else I would be remiss in my duty. One of my Houses calls for duty and honour, and I would not have either, if I did nothing to warn you of the dangers posed to your Kingly brother’s bastards. Though not officially of your House and line, they carry the blood of your forefathers. I know you will understand that stepping aside to allow them to be harmed, when you are in a position to prevent it, might be looked upon by the gods as a mass kinslaying. All gods abhor such, even the mysterious gods worshiped in abundance across the Narrow Sea._

_Your reputation as a logical, honourable and well ordered man is well told across all the known world, of this I can have no doubt. No man was ever more mindful of his duty. Your brave withstanding during the siege of Storm’s End will be remembered in perpetuity, as a trial of extreme endurance successful entirely to the fortitude of its commander. Your brother is no such man, though passion runs furiously in his veins. This matter cannot be left to his judgement, and though these scattered seedlings I implore you to gather are not your own, still the blood that runs through them is hot._

_I write to beseech you to have your agents seek out these children, and scatter them across Kingdoms where lions do not prowl, where they might grow and learn a trade. Then they will be of use to society and worthy of the small drop of noble blood which graces their veins._

_Be assured of my friendship, my lord,_

 _the Red Wolf._

The letter will fall heavily on his desk, and he grimaces at the thought of being confronted with his brother’s many misdeeds.

*

“Don’t you think Mikken provides the very neatest work, Robb,” asks Sansa, fingering her wolf’s head brooch. It is a delicate, yet aggressive thing, with large biting teeth.

“Aye,” says Robb, patting his normal sword, not the blunted one he uses in practice bouts. “A man of great skill.”

“Such a shame he has never had an apprentice worth mentioning in the same breath,” Sansa adds slyly. It is just the two of them, Jon still with Arya, and Theon surprisingly absent. Her bones sing out to search for him, but that is not her current mission.

Robb catches her falsely light tone, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the road she is leading him down. “Indeed.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth our while, then, for Father to find an adequate young man to learn from him? Some strapping lad, already vastly skilled, but eager to continue to improve and expand? Perhaps bringing knowledge of techniques taught elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Sansa-” Robb pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed tightly shut, before giving in with a heavy sigh. “You wish me to speak to Father about Mikken’s new apprentice.”

“What a splendid idea!” Sansa crows, “For Father has grand connections through the King. He should have a trusted representative select someone from the Street of Steel.”

“Anything else?” Robb drawls, apparently done with the pretense.

“He must be able to display a singular skill, in something particular.” Sansa announces, before floundering. She cannot for the life of her recall what skill exactly it is, that would single out the right boy unequivocally. Arya spoke of it, and she saw him working with her own eyes, and yet...

“Shields?” Sansa mutters to herself, though Robb is still listening intently, “No, that’s not right. Nor is iron fixings for furniture, nor shackles, nor silverwork. Damn it all to the Seven Hells... Hell- Helm!”

Sansa shrieks in joy for stumbling upon the right thing, startling a kitchen maid, who is passing by with a bushel of vegetables. The poor girl jumps, spilling several beets, blushing bright like one herself when Robb bends to scoop them up. Once the girl is safely on her way, Sansa continues.

“Helms, he should be skilled at helmet making,” Sansa commands, to Robb’s enduring frustration.

“Whatever for? They’re rarely worn in the North, and plain ones suit just fine.”

“Because it is skilled labour. Difficult to get correct. And don’t you want someone who is able to properly outfit a King for battle, Robb?” She prods, with intensity.

Robb continues to grumble, but does as he is bid, regardless. “An apprentice smith, skilled at helms.” He mumbles to himself, before muttering; “Whatever next? Dancers from Lys? Gods be good!”

Sansa leaves him to bemoan his terribly difficult life, having more tasks to complete before the Boltons arrive, and hostile forces invade her home. She will not be able to move freely then, for fear of all the eyes watching from the shadows.

*

Oberyn Martell will read the letter addressed to his brother with consternation, and no small amount of worry.

_Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne_

_The Beggar King will not live to ever see Westeros again, and the coin fell wrong for his sister. Do not think them the only members of their kin still living. Instead ask yourself why the mourning sword and his sworn brothers fought wolves in the sand for a blue rose. What treasure did they hope to protect among that bed of blood? For a wolf can hold many secrets in its paw, especially amongst the snow, where lions, stags and falcons fear to tread._

_My condolences for the loss of your beloved sister. She deserved justice, which the wolves longed to give her, while stags and lions laughed. Your time for vengeance will come._

_Your friend, the Red Wolf._

“Do you think there could be any truth to it?” Oberyn will ask, incredulous at the bold words. A code so obvious only a simpleton could not crack it, yet sent by raven, and not messenger.

“That is what I intend you have you find out,” Doran will reply. “Perhaps we will send Quentyn with you. Arianne’s hatred of him only goes stronger by the day, I suspect.”

“Then tell her the truth, and end this feud before it begins,” Oberyn will admonish him, yet always with the understanding his words will fall on deaf ears.

*

Sansa finds Theon pouring saltwater over his head by the deep pool in the godwood. She does not question what he is doing; he was given a pewter jar with which to do so by his Uncle Aeron. Theon received a blessing from the drowned man on the beach by the harbour on the banks of the White Knife, and a reminder that ultimately, all water begins and ends in the sea. Though she thinks him slightly mad, she kneels beside him anyway, and does not complain at the salty taste of his lips.

A tiny wooden icon nestles on the edge of the water by his feet, bought from a trader on that same trip to White Harbour. There are some that worship the Drowned God elsewhere in Westeros, more still in Essos. The little icon, with a hole through its centre and several winding appendages that could be legs or tentacles, plus one particularly phallic shaft of wood arising diagonally outward, can be found in these places. Arya described a large statue much like this is Braavos, though not exactly where. Only mentioning that the Drowned One was considered an aspect of the Many-Faced God there.

Theon has carried the little symbol of home in his pocket, since purchasing it. “A little godliness might do me a good turn,” He had grinned, the same smile he wears now.

“You’ll catch a chill,” Sansa chastises, rubbing the dripping water from his locks with the corner of his thick cloak.

“I’ll have you to warm me, won’t I?” He replies, and Sansa cannot help but laugh at his presumption.

“Always,” She declares, pulling him back to her, to claim his mouth again, until their lips are swollen and breath is heavy.

As they make their way back to the main courtyard, Sansa can see riders unmounting, and for one awful moment, her heart plummets, at the thought of confronting Roose Bolton so soon. But the men carry no banners, wear no sigils, and dress all in black.

She hears Bran and Rickon squeal before she sees them, carried under one arm each, like a bundle of firewood. This kindling giggles and squirms however, utterly delighted to be caught.

“Uncle Benjen!” Jon’s voice carries across the yard, and Sansa’s steps skitter and increase, dragging Theon along. He is not so enamoured to be included, but she does not care, having grown more affectionate of her uncle from afar.

Benjen is dressed in thick dark furs, his long hair tied back neatly, his beard rugged like a Mountain Clansman. He kisses Sansa on both cheeks, eyes wide at her diminutive stature. He follows her movement with his eyes, as she steps back into Theon, and wraps his arm about her waist. She weaves her fingers into Theon’s, across her own stomach, and sees clear comprehension in those Stark grey eyes. Acceptance, though perhaps grudging, quickly follows. Another ally has fallen into her lap, and she didn’t even have to pray overmuch for it. The Gods indeed are good, Robb, she thinks.


	21. Ellaria

THE ZEALOUS TRAVELLER

She had no intention of letting her love travel so far away without her. The North is famed for two things only; its brutal, unforgiving barren land, and its equally merciless people. Oberyn said there was beauty to be found everywhere, if you only knew how to look for it, and Ellaria did not doubt it. But there is little mercy in this world, and though she is not a jealous woman by nature, she has no desire to see Oberyn ever walk away from her with no intention of returning. It is a pain she could not abide, not even for the love of her children.

Ellaria knows to lose him; to drink or other such vices, even to another, she could withstand. Yet each breath without him by her side, would be a stab to the heart. She would withstand it if she must. But if he were gone from this life, if all chance of redemption or reconciliation was lost to her forever, that she could not stand. If men truly have souls, and are willed by the gods' decrees, then her soul and Oberyn's are the same. There is no life worth living, without Oberyn alive somewhere in the world, free to love and fight and fuck as his heart desires. If he departs this world before Ellaria herself does, there will be no reason for her to go on living; save for the burning desire to wreak vengeance, on whatever took him from her. This she knows right down into the marrow of her bones. And she knows that Oberyn is aware of all she is capable of, in pursuit of what she believes in.

That is why Oberyn does not ask if Ellaria is coming North with him. He already knows the answer.


	22. Sansa XI

THE LONE TRAVELLER

When Sansa is called to her Father’s solar, she thinks little of it. He has been displeased with her since her outburst, but has not argued with her demands. He is probably hoping that some time will cool her temper, and he can try again. Sansa expects this conversation to go much the same path as the last, though perhaps she will be even more forceful in her command of betrothal to Theon. While waiting for admittance, she is startled to spy Uncle Benjen in the room, when she is given leave to enter. Benjen cannot meet her eyes when she looks to him for guidance and a smile, and her stomach sinks. This will be worse than she has anticipated, if Father’s almost apologetic grimace is anything to go by.

“I have received a letter from Dorne.” He begins, “A party has set off from Sunspear that will sail the length of the Seven Kingdoms until it alights in White Harbour. At the end of those months, Princes Oberyn and Quentyn will travel with their party for a prolonged visit here in the North.”

“How wonderful,” Sansa trills, somewhat confused by this opening speech. “They say Prince Oberyn is a very well travelled man. A strange thing that he has not ventured North before. Is he coming to see the Wall?”

Her eyes flicker to Benjen, hoping he will join the conversation, but her efforts are fruitless.

“I could not say.” Father states, “But it seems likely that if Prince Doran is sending his heir to the North, he comes to claim a Princess.”

“Oh no,” Sansa cannot contain her whisper.

“You would be the wife of a Lord Paramount, and rule over all of Dorne.” Father continues. Still in that same measured tone of voice, as though he is trying to circumvent her grief with calm soothing tones.

“Have you forgotten how strange and backward the Dornish are?” Sansa shrieks, “Arianne is Doran’s eldest, and his heir. She will be the ruler of Dorne.”

“I have been informed,” Ned grimaces at this, likely at the reminder that the dishonest profession of spying exists, “She does not have her Father’s support. He has sent her away from him, and does not teach her as one does an heir.”

Sansa’s fists clench, her face no doubt flushed and hideous with suppressed rage. She cannot afford mindless anger at this juncture. She must collect her thoughts and provide a logical rebuff.

“You told me you wanted to see a Dornish Sand Steed, once,” Benjen says gently, as if that will soften the blow of what he knows she will be losing.

Sansa recoils from the betrayal, taking a step back from the apparently united brothers.

“How dare you?” she hisses, quiet and low, “Do not compare a passing interest in horses to my feelings for Theon! For you know, you both know, what you are asking of me.”

“First affections can fade, Sansa,” Father claims, “Not all young romances ever come to fruition. We all must do our duty-”

“The Others take your duty,” Sansa snarls, deciding that mindless anger is going to rule the day after all.

Benjen blanches, clearly uncomfortable to be partaking in this conversation between Father and daughter. Meanwhile, Father sighs heavily, looking for a brief moment the exact double of Robb.

“Sansa, you are the eldest daughter of House Stark. You have always known your marriage would be decided by your Mother and I.”

“Where is Mother?” Sansa demands, “I don’t hear her trying to throw me to the vipers at the other end of the world!”

Father purses his lips, annoyed at her dramatics. “Your Mother and I are in agreement. She will talk to you privately on this matter later; her duties keep her busy.”

Sansa frowns at this- of the two of them, Father’s duties are more pressing, yet he has found time in his schedule for this ridiculous conversation.

“I hope you have not yet written to Dorne, Father.” She brings the discussion back to its true path, “For they will be bitterly disappointed.”

“By all reports, Quentyn Martell is a studious, dutiful man. Not known for reckless or foolish behaviour. He may not be such a bad match, Sansa, if the one you wish for is out of reach.”

“Theon is not out of reach. He is right across the keep, attending to his studies, as I should be. Instead I waste my time here, listening to plans that will never come to pass.” Sansa replies scathingly, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“I know not where this bold new attitude has arisen from, Sansa,” Father cautions, “But I do not care for it. You will mind your tongue around your elders.”

“And if I do not? If I stand on the battlements and tell all of Winterfell I am a ruined woman with soiled virtue, what shall you do then?” Sansa counters, glaring harshly. She is dancing across thin ice now, and no doubt frozen water will soon grip her ankles tight and drag her under.

“Sansa!” Father calls, aghast, but quietens when Sansa merely rolls her eyes.

“I am not, of course.” She reassures them, Benjen’s mouth hanging open for a moment, considering how far she is willing to push this issue. “But once a rumour is started, it is difficult to quieten.”

“You grow far too wild, my girl,” Ned Stark says, entirely unprepared for the stubbornness of daughters that have almost flowered.

“Will you promise not to betroth me to anyone but Theon?” Sansa asks, knowing it is futile, but willing to give him one last chance until she forces the issue in a manner she can never take back.

“You know I cannot promise you so,” Father sighs, “If not Quentyn, there will be other eligible lords better suited than Theon. I am afraid it will always be so.”

“You may live with that fear, but I do not.” Sansa retorts, “But here is a promise I will make with you Father, a bargain of sorts. You will promise not to betrothe me to another, and I will promise never to tell what I know of Jon’s mother.”

There is a confused silence at that, her Father’s face at once shuttered and guarded against her, in a way she has only seen when he was talking to Lannisters. The silence yawns between them like the gaping maw of a gorge, cut deep into the hillside, breaking them apart with every prolonged moment.

“I do not know what it is, you think you know, Sansa-” Father begins, but Sansa has had enough of her time wasted.

“I know blue roses and blood accompanied his birth.” She whispers, “I know three men died in the hot sand for his sake, and only a fool would not realise what you found in that tower, as Lyanna lay dying.”

Father’s face blanches white, and he staggers to his chair by the cracking fire, suddenly haggard. Benjen starts toward him, catching his eye with a cry of his name, but recoils back from whatever truth he finds in Ned's eyes. Benjen may have had his own suspicions, but she and Jon had never found out if he had known the real truth. Apparently, he did not.

Wordlessly, Benjen paces the length of the room in agitation, before slamming his fist into a small table. The wood splinters and groans in agony, but he pays it no mind.

“By all the gods, Ned,” He eventually murmurs, twin pairs of grey eyes meeting, like for like.

“I could have claimed him, fabricated some tale of a wife dying in childbirth, had you hidden him among your men. He need not have had a bastard’s lot.” Benjen hisses, suddenly incensed. “How could you condemn him to such?”

It is all Sansa has ever wanted to know, but Ned provides no answers, simply dropping his weary head to his hands.

“I did what I thought best,” his words are muffled among his weather-beaten hands.

“Best for whom?” Benjen growls, “He could have been Brandon’s get, at least, if he must be a bastard. An insult to your wife, but not one she would grow to hate as much as she does. She loathes the boy, Ned! How could you have been so utterly selfish?”

Ned lets out a low moan, and to her complete shock, Sansa realises her father is weeping. She has never seen her Father look so old and worn.

“I do not know. I don’t know a great many things, but how it came to all this...” Ned looks up then, seemingly forgetting that Sansa exists entirely. The world has narrowed to two brothers of ice and snow. “All I can say, is that I took each step I deemed worthwhile, at that moment, and this is where it led me.”  
  
“And yet you never re-visited this path you trod?” Benjen says, disgusted. “Not even to tell me? Whom did you believe I would betray him to?”

“No one,” Ned moans, “I could not speak of it. I still can’t. I’ve tried to tell Cat so many times...”

Sansa edges back toward the door, aware she has unleashed something she should not have, something she cannot contain. Some hurts run too deep, and this will have consequences she cannot predict. She curses herself for being overconfident in her plots and schemes, that one little thrown horse-hoof into her plans would cause her to tumble into all disrepair.

She slips out unnoticed, leaving the brothers to continue their woeful confrontation. There are some things she does not need nor deserve to hear. If Jon is sent away because of her stupidity, she will never forgive herself.

*

She worries obsessively in the hours before dinner, biting at her nails, a filthy habit she was long cured of, fallen back to in extreme stress. What is to become of her, and all her grand plans now? Will Father ever forgive her for revealing his deception to Benjen? What will happen if he tells Mother, now that Sansa has forced his hand? The possibilities reel in her mind, making her dizzy and sick with it. She does not think she could eat a thing, but attends the hall at the correct hour, knowing her absence will be noted. Father does not look to her once.

Benjen however, watches her with calculated confusion, clearly over his horror at the truth. Now beginning to wonder how Sansa stumbled across such information, and who else might be privy to it. He sits hunched in his chair, haggard and unapproachable.

But all Benjen says to her, is a reminder that the Boltons will arrive soon. With so many strangers in Winterfell, they are not to speak on the topics previously discussed. Sansa agrees at once, ashamed of her reckless behaviour. Secrets seemed so odious to keep, but bringing them into the open was certainly not her intention either, no matter how unsavoury she found the lies. She never wanted to put Jon in danger. She longs to curl up in Theon’s warm embrace, burying her face in his familiar scent, but she cannot have him question her downtrodden spirits. She only has herself to blame for her misery.

Only a terrible daughter would attempt to blackmail her father, into arranging the marriage she wanted for herself. Sansa has never been so selfish, nor so rash, and she deserves to reap whatever punishment she has sown here. But she will not take the words back. Her action was despicable, leveraging Jon’s safety for her wants. But she would never have actually done it. She need only have her Father believe her capable, and it will be enough. This is what it means to be a player in the great game; one must sacrifice steeply, for greater gain. And Sansa has no issue sacrificing her honour for the lives of her family. Her only real regret is, she fears Father and Uncle Benjen will never look upon her the same way again.

Her depressing thoughts rattle around her head, until Mother comes to brush out her hair after dinner. It is a ritual they have not shared since Sansa returned from White Harbour, and she cherishes the action now. Mother’s hands are gentle, her presence warm, but somewhat saddened.

“Your Father has taken leave of his senses, my dear,” She says, when Sansa’s hair is safely tied in rags to sleep in.

Sansa turns to face her, clutching her in a quick hug of gratitude before sitting back to look up at her mother, standing over her, brush still in hand, a watery smile on her face.

“His is finally of a mind to look for a match for you. A eligible suitor will soon be travelling here from the far South, a rich lord who could clothe you in finery and fill your days with endless joy, yet instead he seeks to betroth you to man found right here, in this cold and oft desolate land!” screeches Lady Catelyn Stark.

Sansa’s heart skips a beat. Surely Father would not jump from Quentyn to Domeric, after her indiscretion?

“I don’t want to be the Lady of the Dreadfort!” Sansa wails, “Never, never!”

“Peace, my child.” Mother hushes her, seemingly forgetting about their recent frosty silence in her worry, “Domeric Bolton would have been a preferable option. But it is not of consequence, it will not come to pass. I should never have mentioned it.”

Sansa’s heart leaps, slamming into her ribcage painfully.

“Is it Theon, Mother?” she asks hopefully.

Mother eyes her dubiously, as if worried about what news she can handle, before eventually nodding.

Sansa bursts into happy tears, laugher bubbling up her throat before she can stop it. “Oh Mother, this is fantastic, brilliant news! Oh! I cannot wait for the announcement. Theon will be so astounded.”

Mother accepts her enthusiastic embrace with limp arms, her mind unable to catch on quick enough to Sansa’s jubilation.

“I will look so very fine in a new black and gold dress. I must wear it when Father gives the news, you must tell him to hold off until then. Please, Mother.” Sansa beseeches her, and Catelyn Stark can do no more than nod in acquiescence, dumbfounded.

*

Theon approaches her, pale and overwhelmed. Sansa sees at once that Father has spoken to him. She gathers him in her arms again, not caring who can see, reassured that soon no one will question their intentions and care for one another.

Father does not speak to her regarding Jon, save to ask her who else knows. Demanding to be told how she discovered the terrible truth. She fabricates an unconvincing lie that she heard him talking to Lyanna’s statue in the crypts, and eventually worked out the rest, during her studies of Robert’s Rebellion. It is all he can get from her, and he eventually gives up on digging up more. When Sansa promises that no one else she knows of is privy to the information, Father tells her to forget all she knows, in return for the marriage she has brokered. She agrees to do so, but with the caveat that Jon be allowed to follow the path he has chosen, and become a sailor. And that Father will bequeath him land and a holdfast of his own, within the year. She thinks that will be sufficient enough to reassure Jon that he is well-loved and wanted in the North. Father accepts with only mild reluctance.

“You have done a cold thing, here, Sansa.” Father says sternly, “I did not think you capable.”

“A great many things are capable for love, Father. As you well know. Jon is proof of it.” Sansa replies, as she leaves his solar, her heart far lighter.

Her joy does not last long. Finally, the Boltons have arrived to darken their doorsteps, with their dour demeanour and chilling sigil hoisted high, and blazoned across all their leathers. Sansa watches with Bran from atop the battlements as carts are unloaded, men barking orders at one another. Domeric Bolton, her Father and Mother, Benjen and Robb are all present to greet Lord Bolton, who is not overly affectionate with his heir. He clasps him across the forearm in a greeting of respect, at least. Sansa’s breath is stolen by the stocky young man that skitters forward once Roose has been led inside by Father. Domeric is hanging back for no reason she can discern. Until the young man comes forward, that is, from his place hidden amongst servants and guards. It is a face Sansa would know anywhere; oft in the dark of her nightmares, and no less welcome in the pale light of day.

Domeric clasps Ramsay to his chest like a long-lost love, or else a beloved brother, sorely missed. How any man could love such a foul creature, she cannot fathom. She had never seen Ramsay anything other than angry or callously happy at causing misery to others. He was obsessed with Theon, who drew the focus of his attention, even when Sansa became his wife. Though he forced himself upon her regularly, it was nothing versus the sick pleasure he derived from his games with Theon, whom he adored in his disgusting, perverse manner. Theon was forced to share his bed far more than Sansa ever was. Here is the monster that first bound them, in their shared pit of despair. Bile rises, but she swallows it down. She has done her heaving, crying and choking over Ramsay. She will not allow him to take another dignified moment from her.

Facing him again was not something she thought she would have to do in this life, however. She had hoped to plot his demise without ever looking upon that hated face ever again. But she will abide and endure, and see it gone from this world once more. Nothing can stop her from exposing him now, in her own home. She is privy to Winterfell’s secrets, and the household as it always should have been, strong and healthy. Bringing him down will not take an army this time. A few well placed words should be enough.

Still, her bones quiver to see Domeric holding his bastard brother close, their embrace not broken as they move into the warmth inside the castle. Is it possible that someone in this world was capable of genuinely loving the monster she had slain once already? What a very strange life it was, if so.

*

Roose Bolton’s eyes are pale chips of ice that bore into her, but Sansa is not cowed. He has no reason to be interested in her, no reason save for his clear hope that she might wed his son. All possibility of that is dismissed though, when Father announces at the feast;

“I have the great pleasure of announcing the first betrothal in my House, since mine own. My beautiful daughter, who has flourished here in the North, will one day leave our shores to become the Lady of the Iron Islands. No doubt her wilful nature will serve her well, as she brings her feminine, zestful joy to their shores. Theon, raised as a Northman, though Ironborn, will care for her with more regard than any other could, I am sure.”

His muted bannermen, a furious Roose included, can only raise their goblets of wine and mugs of ale as Ned toasts the happy couple. Her siblings are stunned, even Robb, whom Sansa assumed would be privy to the rapidly unfolding events. He regains equilibrium quickly, however, clapping Theon on the shoulder and bellowing out his congratulations.

Sansa remembers nothing more than dancing the night away after that; safely encased in Theon’s arms for the majority of it. She allows herself to be led by Jon, followed by Robb for a set or two, Benjen, and a sweet dance with Bran. Domeric, gracious in defeat, dances with her for one song, and bids them great happiness. Sansa, flush with joy and wine, squeezes through the crowded throng afterwards, throwing her arms about Theon again, nuzzling into him and allowing herself the pleasure of a mostly well-executed plan.

Father’s knowledge of her understanding will not rest where they have left it, she knows. There is nothing she can do about it now, however, determined to enjoy her night, resplendent in her dress, thick black strips of velvet bordered with gold accents, heavy sleeves flowing beside her arms. She will allow nothing to come between their happiness for this one occasion, despite her very real demons, lurking in the shadowy recesses of the hall. Watching the revellers with ice blue eyes, peering from a face too young to hold such cruelty, as the like she knows she will find there, if she only turns her head to look.


	23. Benjen

THE TACITURN TRAVELLER

His niece was not as savvy as she believed herself to be. She may have tricked him into lowering his defences once, but he is not the type to be taken for a fool repeatedly. He will not forget her wiley nature, and in future guard himself against it. He did not become First Ranger through an incautious nature. There are many things that a man cannot ever hope to learn in one lifetime, but a respectful distrust of others and their intentions is not one of them.

Ned cannot see it in one so young, but Benjen recognises in Sansa a guarded, duplicitous nature. An ambition, which left unchecked could see her become great and powerful someday. He only hopes she does not lose her compassion on the road to whatever those goals, though he suspects they begin as noble ones, prove to ultimately be.


	24. Sansa XII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Missives are sent across the Seven Kingdoms to announce Sansa’s betrothal. All the Houses in the North, as well as Theon’s family and Sansa’s from the Riverlands, are invited to their celebratory ball. It will be an event kin to the Harvest festivities in the North, the grandest hurrah before the dark of Winter falls across the world. Northmen are generally frugal, but these are the feasts where the most livestock are slaughtered, so that even the smallfolk can enjoy in the celebration. Mother is desperate to show that they are not savages in the North. She knows that her father and brother will likely be in attendance, judging the circumstances they bartered for their daughter when they used her marriage to secure an alliance. She is more stressed than ever, walking through stone corridors with bundles of fabric or rolls of parchment, muttering to herself, Bran still hot on her heels.

Sansa wonders what Jon Arryn will think of her alliance, knowing Robert will be displeased. His obsession with tying House Stark to House Baratheon would not be assuaged by suggesting Bran for Shireen. The disfigured girl was not of his direct line, and he still had three children of his own, and many arrangements he could make with Ned’s other children. The thought of Arya matched with Joffrey makes her dry heave. Perhaps she ought to suggest Robin Arryn to block it. Arya would absolutely hate that gross boy, and no doubt run away from the Eyrie. But Cersei would never allow a marriage to Joffrey anyway, the only time that poisonous disease of a woman could ever be relied upon to make the right decision. But the current Queen might not be able to stop Robert Baratheon, if he insisted.

Sansa could work better with Myrcella for Robb, though she would rather not. Any match with one of Cersei’s cubs means they will never be free of her tyranny. The woman would do anything to protect and defend her children. Sansa well remembers watching as Cersei was forced to give Mrycella to Dorne. They only real advantage Sansa can see, is that it would prevent that particular match. She cannot allow the Dragon Mother’s allies to band together again. This means separating the Tyrells from the Dornish and Yara’s Ironborn. Though Theon’s sister's command of a fleet remains to be seen, if she is to become a married woman. And what can be made of Quentyn, is an entirely fresh circumstance.

Sansa decides to set aside her notions for marriage pacts for the moment. With any luck, the Tyrells will forget their plot with Renly, now that their path to the throne is clear, without Sansa to stand in their way. Margaery is welcome to attempt to tame Joffrey. Perhaps their marriage will last a little longer, this time, if it comes earlier. Joffrey will not have exposed his true colours so blatantly, as he only had free reign for his cruelty once his supposed father had died. Sansa wishes the other girl luck. Margaery may be a vixen, but she was also a friend. Despite her efforts to use Sansa to gain the North, at least she was kind about it. She was her only balm in a nest of hatred, and Sansa will forever be grateful for that. Still, it will be no great loss if she never meets the Rose of Highgarden again.

Her other focus is the Night’s Watch. With Benjen here, it doesn't take much to press Jon to ask him questions during their talks. Benjen mistakenly takes this for Jon’s interest in the profession, which irks Sansa. She doesn't want anyone to sway his head. Since men will have their private conversations, she has no other way of gaining information. Jon tells her that the Rangers have been reporting stranger stories of late, and Sansa at once suggests it is time Benjen paid a visit to Old Nan. Jon gives her a dubious look, but her idea that Old Nan might be pleased with the new stories win him over. She can only hope the old servant can shake some sense of foreboding into her Uncle, if her tales and descriptions of long missing foes match. She has ever known Old Nan not to seize an opportunity to induce terror.

Benjen presents Sansa with her horse. Naming it a celebration gift, now she is a betrothed woman. The chestnut red mare snorts happily, snuffling at Sansa’s hair with her warm fuzzy nose. Her hide is warm, her mane thick, with hairy hooves; a horse bred to survive in the cold. Sansa does not have a name prepared for her, but requests that she is stabled beside Theon’s Smiler, whom she will have to get along with. The two will be accompanying one another on many rides, after all. She will think of an adequate name, that might present the two horses as a pair, much like Theon and herself.

There are more pressing matters to attend to. Ramsay has not approached the Stark children, but Sansa has felt his presence haunting her childhood home like an inch she cannot reach to scratch. She wants to burn him out, smother him in his sleep, or else have a guard push him down a well in Winter Town. She wants all record of his existence expunged from this world, his name no more than a forgotten whisper on the wind. But she stems her instincts, knowing she has been too quick in her recent judgements.

If she is to dispose of this beast cloaked in human flesh, she must ensure that it can never be linked to House Stark. Well she remembers all the suffering that resulted from Mother taking Tyrion Lannister hostage. All the turmoil that followed, after Ser Jaime attacked Father in the street like a common dog, stemmed from the rash act of a grieving mother. Mother was so sure that it had been Tyrion that sent Bran hurtling from the tower. Sansa now knows who truly broke his back and took his legs from him, and knows she cannot take action without proof, as her mother did.

For the moment, she can do nothing but ensure that Ramsay finds no reason to fixate his hatred, and evil games, on her family. Theon especially is not known for a delicate nature and compassionate turn of phrase. Sansa is well aware that men such as Ramsay, with no scruples themselves in their treatment of others, turn rabid if they believe they are being ridiculed. And they hold grudges forever. Ramsay will not forget the treatment he received here in Winterfell, and though Sansa has no real power over the servants, she has at least instructed the ones that regularly cross her path to be extremely polite to the Bolton household, even the lowborn among them.

She takes pains to be more explicit with her family, however. Having witnessed Ramsay’s public display of affection for his brother, she understands the facade he will be displaying. Every moment of her incarceration is seared into her mind, and she remembers Ramsay kissing her hand and treating her with all courtesy in public, his handsome face not yet twisted into the cruel grin that would haunt her dreams.

“There aren't many Boltons.” Arya whines, kicking at the dirt, as she and their younger brothers share a picnic. Theon is sat beside Sansa, but Robb and Jon are nowhere to be found. Sansa brought blueberry tarts for Robb especially, but Rickon is happy to stuff himself with them.

Bran nods seriously. The older boys have gained a playmate in Domeric, and the girls now have the Manderly sisters, who are sharing Arya's blanket along with Bran. But there is no one of age with Arya, no younger girl to share her interests with.

“There are enough,” Sansa replies dourly, “And watch that you mind them. Boltons aren’t ones to suffer fools or disrespect. They still keep the cloaks made of our ancestors, you know.”

Bran pulls a sour face at that, putting down his half-eaten sausage. “That’s foul, Sansa!” He whines, and she nods seriously.

“Exactly. So watch you don’t become one. Flaying might be outlawed, but there are other ways to cause harm. The bad blood between our families runs deep, and if I hear you have been adding to it, you will spend your time confined to your rooms, missing feasts and all manner of frolics.”

Her brother and sister giggle, but Sansa silences them with a glare.

“I speak truly,” She cautions, “Ramsay Snow, natural son of Lord Bolton, has a reputation for bringing gruesome, grizzly punishments to those that displease him. Lord Roose refuses to reprimand him, being too fond of his son. Mind that you keep out of his way.”

The Manderly girls share a look of alarm at that, and she prays they do not question her mother about it. There are enough things Sansa cannot provide answers for. She leans into Theon, thankful for his warmth and silent support. Sansa and Theon are nestled on their own blanket, with the picnic basket, and the flailing Rickon taking up the rest of the space. Manderly and Stark men are watching over them a little ways off, enjoying their own light lunch and watering the horses.

The sky is a crisp, pale blue, the sun's arc through the sky lower in these autumnal days, lazy white clouds puffing along slowly, high above. Lightening the mood, Theon points out one that looks like a falcon, whilst Sansa is more adventurous, and names one particularly rotund cloud a hippo. They are ferocious creatures that reportedly live in Yi Ti, she informs them all.

“I don't think those are real, Sansa,” Theon grins, “A water-cow that squashes people to death? Sounds like one of Old Nan’s tall stories.”

“Stories have to come from somewhere,” Sansa reasons sensibly, reaching over with a damp handkerchief to clean some of the food smear from Rickon’s decorated purple face. He squirms, but doesn't resist too vocally.

“Hmm, I suppose. All manner of strange things could lurk far across the Summer Sea.”

“Will you take me there, someday?” She asks, suddenly curious about Theon’s lack of wanderlust. He didn't press her for detailed predictions on his own future. There is only one path he has ever mentioned for himself: the road that leads back to Pyke.

“Where? Yi Ti?” Theon blinks, sitting up from where he had been leaning back, low to the ground, resting on his elbows. He winds his finger around a blade of glass, twinning the green round his finger like a strangling vine.

“Should you really like to?” He asks, peering up at her from underneath a flop of clean hair.

“Travel that far on a ship?” Wylla reiterates, wrinkling her nose. “Such a long journey would be... Perilous.”

“If you venture nothing, you gain less.” Sansa shrugs her shoulders. “Navigating the stars, with the rush of the sea spray against your skin and the lingering taste of salt in the air. Stopping at peculiar, far-flung tropical ports, to trade and barter for spiced fruits and shimmering fabrics. Dark wooden trinkets and mysterious tonics. Coloured glass and candles with sweet scents. Alighting on bizarre shores, where the sand beneath your feet is dark and glittering, or the foreign trees drip from the humidity. Deciding when and where to travel because of the whims of the wind.”

“You have a gift for painting a romantic picture, Lady Sansa,” Wynafryd compliments. “Such a thrilling notion. Pirates, slavers and storms at sea might put a dampner on such idealism, however.”

“There is no point to always believing the worst. I prefer to hope for better situations, taking the necessary precautions to prevent unfortunate issues.”

“Avoiding dangerous situations to begin with might be the safer option.” Wynafryd counters, “Rather than placing oneself in harm’s way and hoping for the best.”

Sansa glares at her challenger, not in the mood to have their outing soured by petty arguments. She is, however, thoroughly through with pretending to be meek and unopinionated. She has been run roughshod over many times in her parallel lives, and it is an experience she is utterly done with.

“Be that as it may,” She sniffs haughtily, “Life is not a sequence of safe hearths and harbours, where only friends gather to wish you well. I would rather live a life worth remembering, than encase myself in some safe keep, to wither my bones until old age takes all courage from me.”

Wynafryd struggles to find a rejoinder to that, her lips twitching with the effort at not pursuing or pouting them. Sansa sees the older girl struggle to keep the ill feeling off her face, and turns away in triumph. Rickon provides a realistic outlet for her dark glee, allowing Sansa to coo gibberish at him while he waves his pudgy fists in happiness, at the continued sweet treats. A blueberry tart massacre has taken place. Half-decimated pastry is left carved open in craters, where the filling has been scooped out by fat babe fingers. Theon and Bran pick up the slack like hungry starlings, eating the leftover victims, undiscerning of the crumbled mess of pastry. Sansa eats her lemoncakes with more refinement, sneaking an unnoticed corner of blueberry tart when no one is looking.

She is saved from whatever reply Wynafryd eventually comes up with, when Robb comes galloping toward them, skidding to a halt on his winded horse. There is a glazed look in his eyes, as he stumbles from the saddle and flops down onto Sansa and Theon’s blanket. Unheeding of the curiosity his unwarranted presence brings, he absent-mindedly scoops up a blob of blueberry filling, that Rickon has missed. Staining his lips and fingers blue as he licks off the messy treat, Robb continues to sit in silence, blinking in a daze.

“Robb?” Sansa braves, “Are you well?”

Robb hums in response, licking a blueberry off his thumb. He catches her eye after Sansa weaves her head into his eyeline, and lets out an overly loud exclaim; “Oh, yes!”

He casts about awkwardly, looking for something to say, before grinning privately to himself, ducking his chin. Rickon proceeds to crawl into Robb's lap, quickly cuddled close by warm, welcoming arms. Robb's coy grin doesn’t seem to match his next enthused words;

“I have convinced Father to repair the Broken Tower!” Robb boasts, “Since we looked through Edwyle’s accounts, I found a store of copper everyone had clean forgotten about. It was written into his logs, but never spent. I had Luwin go through Rickard’s accounts, but it was still missing.”

He leans forward conspiratorially, pleased with himself: “So I went to the Tower, and in the cellar, under a pile of rubble, it was just sitting in a chest gathering dust! I persuaded Father to let me pay for the work with it. Since we’ve Bolton and Manderly men here, we won’t need many labourers from Winter Town, which doesn’t really have so many spare men to begin with. Now would be the most auspicious time to begin. Since idle men cause trouble, as Mother always says. Father has given me charge of the project.”

“How wonderful!” Sansa exclaims, not in the least because if the Broken Tower is mended by the time of Robert’s arrival, Cersei Lannister won’t be tempted to fuck her brother in it. “Mother must be pleased, at the thought of extra rooms.”

Robb’s mouth gives a funny twitch then, his eyes sparkling with the mischief of one in the possession of a secret. “Yes, Mother was happy to know we won’t be strapped for space in future. Though I think she’ll have her hands full with other concerns before much change has begun.”

“When will the work start?” asks Arya, in the midst of peeling an orange.

“On the actual tower itself? Within the month, I should say,” Robb decides, “We’ve only to wait for the correct tools and ropes. We’ll need to dig first, see, as most of the stones that are missing from the east side are buried in the dirt at the base. We fetch that up, and there’s no need to drag stone out of the wolfswood.”

“And that can begin immediately,” Theon supposes, gratified by Robb’s quick nod.

“How exciting,” Wynafryd flashes the heir of Winterfell a sultry smile, “So many changes afoot in the North, and such a worthwhile project instigated by you, before even reaching maturity.”

“Well...” Robb pretends not to preen at her words, which leaves Sansa wanting to scowl. “It’s not my design or anything. Luwin still has the architect’s designs, copied from the original.”

“It wasn’t built by Bran the builder?” Bran enquires, shocked. Sansa is equally surprised to learn such. She had thought all of Winterfell erected during the Age of Heroes.

“Apparently not,” Robb helps himself to a hard-boiled goose egg, wrapped in lettuce. “It was a later addition added by Edric Stark.”

“Edric Stark?” Wylla repeats, obviously not familiar with the name. Sansa herself isn’t sure of the man in question, though she recognises the shape of it. She will have seen it written on their family tree, somewhere. There is a giant tapestry in Father’s solar where the leaves of a weirwood contain the names of every Stark that has ever lived, and even most of the bastards. Though Sansa is not familiar with the history of this man, she would never be foolish enough to say so. If Wylla is hoping to impress Robb, her lack of knowledge of the seat of the North, will not win her admiration.

“Son of Cregan, brother of Barthogan. The one that married his niece, Serena.” Robb elaborates, continuing to raid their picnic for remaining titbits. “Apparently he was some kind of masonry prodigy. He designed lots of improvements and built Greywater Watch, apparently.”

“He built Greywater?” Theon repeats, “How do you even set about designing a castle that floats?”

“Much the same as any other, I suppose,” Robb shrugs, “I’m more concerned that he married his brother’s daughter. Who does that?”

“Targaryens, mostly,” Theon quips, making them all snigger, even the high-minded Wynafryd.

“It would be like marrying Uncle Benjen,” Robb continues, with a disgusted wince. “Horrid.”

“I don’t know,” Theon muses, “I think you’d make a rather fine couple. Benjen’s a handsome man, Robb. I’m happy for you.”

Robb throws a sausage at him, landing a perfect blow on the crown of his head. Sansa can’t contain her giggles, only laughing harder when Theon gives her a look of acute betrayal. She lets out a shriek when Theon lunges at her, leaping up to avoid his tickling fingers. He chases her around a mulberry bush, roaring in triumph when he succeeds in catching her, lifting her up into his arms, her back tight to his chest. Breathless, she can only wheeze through shiny, grinning lips, as he buries his face in her throat and inhales her. Pressing kisses to her neck and humming in contentment, as she smooths her fingers over his own, and whispers his name with love on her lips.

*

Robb continues looking pleased with himself for the rest of the afternoon, dragging them all to Mother’s solar when they return to Winterfell, after bidding their company good day. It is only Starks and Theon who make their way down the hallways to Mother’s apartments, though they are joined by Jon along the way. Their brother is quiet, but smiles to see them, accepting a leaping hug from Arya. He carries her into Mother’s room, where Lord and Lady Stark are waiting for them.

Sansa stays close to Theon, wondering at their summons, and fearing the worst. Would Father reveal the truth to Jon and negate the terms of her betrothal pact? Surely not with the little children here, she reasons. Rickon is but a babe, Bran not much better. They would not be able to understand the need for secrecy, and Father would never take such a risk.

Besides, if he had told Mother, she would not be seated placidly at her writing desk, with a small smile on her lips. She doesn’t even scowl at Jon and Theon’s presence, when she usually wishes them excluded from family occasions.

“We have a joyous announcement to make,” Father says, as Robb goes to stand at his side, on the other side of mother, barely containing his glee. Clearly, he has been waiting for this moment with anticipation.

Mother takes Father’s hand, looking up at him as he stands strongly at her side, the two of them with their heir the paragon of what a great House should appear to be.

“I am with child,” Mother says with pride, caressing her stomach with her free hand for a moment, before resting it there.

Sansa stares and stares, willing the words to make sense. This cannot be; they must be mistaken. Has she really altered this much, as to result in the formation of a new life in the world? Or could it be that she is living in another place entirely, another world? Has she usurped the place of a Sansa that died of fever, in a lifeline where there are seven children to Eddard Stark’s name. If so, has any of her meddling even made any changes, or were they always destined to live out these lives if this Sansa survived? Has she affected any difference at all?


	25. Quentyn

THE ASPIRANT TRAVELLER

Father had entrusted him with an odd request, yet as a dutiful son, Quentyn had undertaken it without protest or question. He was to ingraciate himself with the Starks, and draw their attention away from whatever Uncle Oberyn was abound for. This would be no easy task, he would come to discover, as Uncle Oberyn's bold nature made it troublesome not to just ask what his objectives were in the North, so that he may assist. (When his uncle later made the decision not to persue his quest in lieu of following Lord Stark Beyond the Wall, Quentyn though he had taken leave of all sense. There would never be a better time to discover Lord Stark's secrets than when he had left his castle, and the closed-mouthed servants of Winterfell felt safer in opening up to the inquiries. But Oberyn oft let his curiosity about the world drive him to distraction.)

On their swift boat, racing down the sea with the tides frothing in their wake, Quentyn was alive with the possibilities stretching out upon the horizon beyond him. He had not said so to his father, for a man must have some secrets, that he planned to look for a wife during his stay at Winterfell. Dorne had always been too insular, never fully integrating into the Seven Kingdoms. Blaming the hostile climate of their deserts for their lack of interference with the other Kingdoms.

It was a flimsy excuse, for the North was just as difficult to trevail, yet Northmen still sent their sons and daughters to be fostered and wed elsewhere, most famously resulting in the friendship between Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, which had led to the downfall of a tremendously powerful dynasty. Once they combined their military forces with the Tullys and the Arryns. Quentyn had studied the historical texts of the rebellion closely.

Dorne could never hope to forge such strong alliances with anyone, save between their own people, and it made them weak. Quentyn would not allow it to continue. His sister might be loud, with all her declarations on what was her birthright and all she intended to maintain hold of it. His brother was brash, boasting of his fighting prowess and improving the dishonourable reputation of their soldiers by not using blades dipped in poison. But just because his siblings were loud and arrogant, did not mean that the middle child of Doran Martell did not formulate his own plans and ideals within his mind.

A Northern wife would bring fresh blood into the ruling family of Dorne, and perhaps provide him with a companion more suited to his quiet, contemplative nature. Dornish women were as fiery as the spices they consumed, and altogether too lenient of paramours and other such indiscretions. Quentyn wanted a faithful wife that loved him enough to be driven wild with jealousy at the thought of sharing him, but sweet enough not to threaten bodily harm as his cousins or sister would when their blood was up.

He suspected the North was the only place to find such a woman. It was known that, though not as soft as the Dornish were on the issue of bastardy, they did not cast them aside outright, as many in Westeros. Even the great Ned Stark raised his baseborn son in his own castle, surrounded by his family. Quentyn hoped that one of Lord Stark's daughters might be a suitable wife for him, as such an ally would be a brilliant achievement to take home to his difficult-to-impress father.


	26. Sansa XIII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa comes to face her adversary in the strangest manner possible. She knows Domeric Bolton plays the harp; they all do, as he brought it back home from the Vale, and played to rapt attention in New Castle. Here in Winterfell, he has only played it once for a small audience, the night his Father first arrived in Winterfell. Still, the melancholy notes are familiar, and charming. She cannot help but be entranced by it, wrapped in her thoughts of the new babe and all it could mean, following the sweet sounds when she hears Domeric practice. Her winding path takes her to the guest rooms, the suite door to the adjoining chambers the Boltons have been given, wide open.

In the temporary solar, Sansa gets the shock of her life when she sees that it is Ramsay, and not Domeric, holding the delicate instrument between his solid thighs. He plucks at the strings with confidence, while Domeric watches with pride, eyelids heavy. Lulled by the melody, just as she was. She watches in awe, unable to believe that such a brute could be capable of anything so refined and beautiful as the sweet music. But the notes speak for themselves, hanging on the air like the high voices of the siren singers, found on the shores of the Fingers.

It is difficult for her mind to reconcile the foul creature that took pleasure in skinning live people, and the young man seated before her, lost in the rhythmic motion of his song. The final notes hang in the air like a promise, before Domeric claps, breaking the silence with his quiet, solitary applause.

“Excellent,” he praises his brother, “Despite the gap in your practice, I still believe you’re more advanced than I was at your age.”

Ramsay scratches behind one ear, apparently not one to gloat over achievements that are actually admirable to others.

“Not as good as are you now. Father wouldn’t let me have a harp.” Ramsay scowls then, picking at his nails.

Domeric leans around the instrument to stop him, covering his hands with his own. From this angle, Sansa can see the sides of both of their faces, and the longing for approval in Ramsay’s eyes, when he looks up at his brother. All at once the truth hits her, and she steps back, her heart pounding, breath heavy. She recalls that Ramsay told her once Domeric was buried with his harp, because he loved it so. He made a point of mentioning that his Father ordered it so.

She sees now the missing pieces, that she would never have been able to access, had she not seen the brothers interact. Despite Ramsay’s status, Domeric is oft found in his company, supping with him at the lower tables, or riding out with him. Sansa has seen them stepping up to the hay targets together, when packing away her own bow. But never had she seen them like this, quietly soaking up one another’s presence.

Ramsay’s adoration is obvious, from those cold, bright eyes staring up at the brother that trains at swordplay with him, and taught him to play the harp. Roose Bolton had always been a cold, unfeeling man, the kind of man who would indulge his heir if it would make him more eligible to Southern maidens, but give no such leeway to his bastard. What exactly did Ramsay Bolton lose, when his elder brother died? The only affection he could rely on, she realises. The only warmth to be found in the Dreadfort.

Sansa makes her way to neutral ground, toward the Broken Tower, where she can be alone with her thoughts. Roose Bolton had claimed that Ramsay had killed his brother, but Sansa doubts it.  She stumbled across a private moment, where Ramsay had no reason to perform courtesies. He had no reason to fake admiration out of public view. Yet he let his brother still his agitated fingers with a soft touch, and was willing to play for him, and open himself to criticism. Those were acts of trust, of an affection she did not believe him capable of.

But then, Cersei Lannister was the cruellest woman Sansa had ever encountered, and even she could be sweet to her children. After they were dead, she allowed her madness to consume her. Does Ramsay stand upon a similar precipice? Is Domeric the only thing keep him from plunging from the cliffs of sanity into the abyss below?

She resolves to speak to Domeric as soon as possible. If there is a possibility of solving this mystery, and preventing the atrocities that could come to pass, she must take it.

*

She gets her chance when she encounters him in the glass gardens again, this time unaccompanied. He bows to her, stoic and chivalrously offering the rock he was seated on. There isn’t room for two, but Sansa does as she is bid, hoping he will not immediately hurry from her. Alone like this, he can put forth his case for being a better match than Theon, and she expects him not to waste such an opportunity.

She is not disappointed, when he asks if she has ever visited the Iron Islands.

“I have not yet had the privilege. But I suspect I will be allowed to accompany Theon to his sister’s wedding, now that we are officially betrothed.” She replies, breathing in the sweet scent of lemon from the tiny tree that struggles to produce fruit year after year.

Domeric gives her a dubious look. “There are no glass gardens there my lady. Not many plants of any kind, and no trees. I wonder if such a place will make you happy.” He asks, but his tone is gentle, and not disparaging, despite his words. He is a very matter of fact man.

“A hovel in the woods would please me, Ser,” she disagrees, “So long as Theon would share it with me.”

“Your devotion is truly so deep?”

She can’t fault him for his incredulity. He does not know what Theon once was, the wretch he could become, or how Sansa has played her part in making him the less burdened, loveable man he is growing into. Domeric does not know how Theon and Sansa suffered together, until they were two parts of the same miserable creature. Close to broken, yet the only ones capable of saving one another.

“Just so.” she says firmly, “There are parts of him that are wholly mine, that no one else could understand. We are parts of the same whole.”

Domeric considers her words thoughtfully, not dismissing her as sentimental because of her youth.

“Then I wish you great fortune together, my lady.” He declares, “Would that I could find someone to complete me so.”

Sansa smiles mischievously. “Could not Lady Wylla be such a person?”

With pink cheeks, Ser Domeric attempts to deny her suggestion. Sansa has seen him look at the older girl across the room once or twice, seen those looks returned, but without real heat. If he makes a more active pursuit, however, she has no doubt Wylla will open herself to the possibility. After the Starks, the Boltons are the second most ancient and great Northern House. She would not turn away from the chance at being the Lady of the Dreadfort, and it would take one less complication out of Robb’s path. If Roose Bolton can be satisfied with Manderly silver, he might not go looking for more in the shape of a fat Frey’s dowry.

“As your Father’s only heir, you must feel some burden to continue your line?” She asks, sweeping the issue aside for now. Planting the idea as a serious consideration will have to be enough.

“Aye,” Domeric nods, “Though my brother provides some comfort, of course, even if he cannot inherit.”

“The two of you seem close?” Sansa asks, seizing upon the chance to learn more.

Domeric winces then, a guilty look passing across his face. “In truth, I have been keeping something from him, that might draw a wedge between us.”

“Is it really so abominable?” She wonders, but the knight only shrugs. He glances about the flowers, as though the poppies and tulips may grant him the reassurance that he needs to go on. The old gods must be watching over Sansa, for he sighs, and continues.

“If I told him, I could not be sure of his reaction. Will you offer me a woman’s kind perspective, Lady Sansa?”

“I would be glad of it, kind Ser.” She says, repeating his compliment.

“Before I was summoned by your Father, I had planned to visit my brother’s mother. She is of the smallfolk, and lives on my Father’s land. He has forbidden it, but if I encountered her on the road home, and feigned some reason to take her hospitality, such as my horse throwing a shoe, Father could not accuse me of betraying his orders.” He admits, not without a cringe at his blatant intent to flout his Father’s rule.

At once, the truth becomes clear to Sansa. Had Father never summoned Domeric, he would have gone directly from White Harbour to the Dreadfort. Encountering this woman on the road, and dying of some mysterious illness shortly after. Sansa can see it now; Ramsay thrilled to have Domeric home after so long, only to watch him deteriorate in agony. What might that do to a half-mad child, desperately awaiting his brother’s return, the return of the only outwardly affectionate person that cares for him? It does nothing to excuse his later acts of heinous violence, but it goes some way to explaining what pushed him down the path of becoming so utterly irredeemable. It was not Ramsay that killed Domeric at all, she realises.

How would she feel, if the privileged young son of the man that forced a son upon her, turned up at her door? She would not welcome him. She would want to kill him, to punish his father. How naive Domeric was, to expect the best of everyone. Knowing nothing of the pain of rape, he could not be presumed to understand the depth of hatred Ramsay’s mother would hold toward his family. Whatever poison did she seize upon? Whatever plant was at hand, no doubt. Sansa can almost taste the dark triumph at the back on her throat, standing in this unknown woman’s shoes, the same taste of satisfaction she felt watching that same woman’s son torn apart by his own hounds.

Domeric's premature death will not happen this time, not if Sansa has any say in matters. If Domeric is what is necessary to contain Ramsay’s sadism, Sansa takes no umbridge in keeping him safe. The Gods knew Domeric was the better heir for House Bolton. Sansa would see it so.

“Might I ask, Ser, if your brother asked you to seek his mother out?”

It might be difficult, to derail his mission, if so. To her relief, Domeric shakes his head.

“Then might I suggest, my lord, that you wait until he is of age, and then ask him if he wishes to seek her out? Then he might make the decision for himself, and if he is not pleased by what he finds, he will have a man’s wisdom to deal with it?” She doubts the veracity of her own words, as Ramsay will always be a manic beast to her mind, but she cannot say so to Domeric.

“Mayhaps you are right,” he sighs, “I have a tendency to be too hopeful, it has been said. The woman has never come to ask after him, as far as I know. Still, I cannot fathom how anyone could abandon their child.”

Domeric meets her eyes then, the blue-grey colour of his startlingly close to the famously Stark grey colouring.

“I was only six years old when Ramsay came to the Dreadfort. I had never seen a babe before, and none other has seemed as sweet to me since. He was near silent, but always watching, with ice blue eyes, like my Father’s. I had always wanted a brother, and to me, he was a gift from the gods.”

Sansa cannot help but smile at that, despite the subject of their conversation. He is not yet the monster of her nightmares, after all. The Ramsay of this tale is just a babe, innocent like any other.

“You have a great deal of love for him,” she reasons, and will not fault him for it. They are kin, and she could expect no less from a man such as Ser Domeric. He may not be outwardly expressive, but in his own measured way, he is kind.

He does not deny it, straightening to a bold, unashamed stance. Most men would not be so proud of their bastard brothers, ones that may one day challenge their claim.

“Truly, Lady Sansa, from that moment, he was mine. There might not be so many years between us, but my Father is not the sort of man invested in small children. He left me to the care of my mother, Ramsay to wet nurses. When my mother died, we had no one but each other. I have loved him as though he were my own son, from the moment I held his tiny fingers betwixt mine.”

She cannot imagine a life without her boisterous siblings, alone in Winterfell, with no other high born children to play and learn with. How would she have felt, if Robb had never been born, and no babes came after her? If one day, Father had presented Jon as a babe several years younger than her, and promptly ignored him? I would have done the same, she thinks. I would have watched out for him, and he would have been mine.

“Then it is your duty to continue to do so.” She says, “He must have missed you greatly, while you were in the Vale.”

“Yes, though he is not one to admit such in words,” Domeric grins, “In Barrowton, we harassed my Aunt together, disappearing for days among the barrows, hunting and sleeping beneath the stars. Leaving him behind to squire, was the hardest thing I have yet done.”

“Then reassure him it will not happen again,” Sansa reasons, “No matter the circumstance. Let him know he will always have a place by your side, whether he wishes to seek out his mother or not. He might think you are sending him away, otherwise.”

Domeric’s brow creases heavily. “I did not consider such. There will never be a time I wish him gone from me. You do not suppose he could already believe so?”

“We may suppose all manner of wild things, if left alone to brood in the dark,” Sansa says with ominious weight. “You have already told me your Father is man not known for providing reassurance.”

Alarmed, Domeric takes his leave of her, swiftly walking towards the lowly quarters where Ramsay has been stationed. He leaves her alone to stew in her own revelations, her next move suddenly unclear. With Roose as his influence, what manner of man might Domeric become, if the boy he considers his son meets some inexplicable end? If the culprit could not be found and vengence taken, what demonic countenance might take hold of him? He and Ramsay are cut from the same cloth, after all. The same volitile Bolton blood runs in both their veins. Domeric may grow suspicious, despising everyone about him, considering them all potential enemies. Just like his brother was, her mind whispers, lashing out at everything in his path, hateful toward everyone.

Does she not have a responsibility to ensure such a thing does not come to pass? Is not Ramsay a dog better leashed to his brother, if the affection between them is genuine? The whispering trees and shrubs will not provide her with answers. Sansa has asked the gods for enough already; some things she must attempt on her own. She is not capable of forgiving Ramsay for all that she suffered at his hands, for all that Theon suffered. But she might be able to accept a world with him still breathing in it, providing he never becomes such filth again. If she even hears a hint of it, she will not hesitate to move against him. For now, he has been given a reprieve from her shadowy justice.

*

An extended hunt has been planned for the morrow, Mother gratified that the cold stores will be replenished, and the castle emptied for several days. Any women are granted leave to join in the first ride out, to be escorted back on the dawn of the next day. Sansa is keen to go, as is Arya, but Mother rules her too young. Women do not partake in even this much in the South. Mother grimaces at the thought of Sansa on horseback, shooting at hares alongside the men, but she does not speak against it, to her great relief.

They ride out at first light, accompanied by the Wandering Crows of the Night’s Watch, most of whom are continuing on their way South. Uncle Benjen is returning to the Wall, though, his duties as First Ranger preventing him for being gone so long. Benjen is staying for the first day only, and will accompany the women home on his way past Winterfell. Sansa once again thanks him for her horse, now named Sunbeam; for to beam is to smile, and none so bright as the sun.

Sansa brushes her mane and saddles her, proud of her lovely animal, and ability to care for her. Sunbeam is fond of carrots, apples and nuzzling Sansa with her nose. She is not convinced by Theon yet, but Smiler is tolerated, enough that his rider is accepted by default. They gallop out into the wolfwood together, Sansa’s heart lightened by the simple feel of the wind whipping through her unbraided hair.

The party rides for a few hours to get deep enough into the woods, before watering the horses, splitting into two factions, and slowing their pace to a crawl. Sansa has never attended a hunt before, but she carried her own bow, her Tyroshi dagger hidden from sight, strapped to leg. Sansa and Theon have joined the party after land animals, such as hares, squirrels and stoats. Ramsay, to her relief, has gone with the group seeking birds.

Sansa’s first victim is a squirrel, having grown somewhat proficient at hunting them in the godswood. She no longer has qualms about loosing her arrow, since she felled the boar. The small creature is still quivvering with life when she reaches it, however. Wordlessly, she hands it to Theon, to have him snap it’s neck. There are some things Sansa finds she is too squeamish for, and the crunch of tiny bones beneath her fingers is one of them. Once relieved of its suffering, the squirrel goes into their sack, alongside Theon’s hare and a pigeon that flew into his path.

The time passes smoothly, most of them stripping off their cloaks under the warm sun. Sansa has not felt so unburdened since returning to Winterfell, confident as she directs her new horse through the stream and over crunchy leaf litter. Theon is her constant companion, playful compeition arising between them as they count their kills.

The peace of the day is interrupted by the bellow of the a horn; the other party is in danger. Wide eyed, they band together again, from where they have been spread out to unearth the most prey. Sansa’s party rides hard toward the direction the other went, her heart in her throat the entire time. Robb and Jon were both in that party. She fears to think on what may have befallen them. Another boar? A wolf? A horse fallen, trapping its rider beneath? The possibilities are chilling.

She does not expect to find a bloodbath. Slaughtered men and women lay littered in a clearing, their blood dripping from grass and trees, her brothers unhorsed and panting in the middle of it. Aside from a Bolton servant, there are no casulaties among their men. Only a few of the ruffians still live, clad in roughly patched furs, no refinement in their faces or countenance. A troop of wildlings. Sansa watches in bewildered fear as the wild men from beyond the Wall sneer, their yellowing teeth bared in snarls. These are not the men she grew to know and admire, none moreso than Tormund. She had almost forgotten these petty skirmishes they used to endure, before they found common ground with these foreign people.

One man startles at the new arrivals, starting towards Sansa’s party, who are quickly closing the gap left in the semi-circle of Robb’s party, encasing them. Domeric Bolton, still mounted, is the man first in the wildling’s path. Sansa does not hesitate to nock her arrow and let it fly. The man falls with a cry, a spray of blood erupting from his chest. She glares at the other wildlings that were following him, daring another to advance upon them. They fall back, surrounded, unwilling to risk it.

“Drowned God,” Theon whispers at her side, staring at her in awe.

She smirks back at him, unrepentant. He is not the only one admiring her, either. Robb has a thrilled grin on his face, and Ramsay Snow turns to the one who beat him delivering the blow. He drops his own bow to rest against his horse, to regard the brave girl that defended his brother, with a frisson of interest.

Sansa lets her eyes slide over his face, seeking out her own brothers, uncle, and betrothed, finding them all still hale and hearty. She wants to kill the other wildlings for daring to threaten them, but it is not her place. Robb orders them trussed up and returned to Winterfell, enduring the grumbling of his men for a hunt cut short.

Benjen opts to return with them, sure the Lord Commander will want to know what these men have to say. For that, Sansa cannot help but be grateful, for extended time now granted with the man that forced some sense into Father. And she is curious to see what Benjen will make of what the wildlings say about the horrors beyond the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know most people won't be cool with this. All I can say is, I am adding my own back story to Domeric, because I personally subscribe to the theory that Ramsay's mother murdered him in canon (along with some help from Reek 1.0) when he came to meet his brother for the first time. Obviously in GOT, this cannot be the case cause they make a point of Ramsay being raised at the Dreadfort. So, I had to account for the discrepancy, and this is what I chose. It adds another layer to the nature vs nurture debate. 
> 
> In ASOIAF, Ramsay hates Domeric because his mother raised him to see himself as Roose's true heir and a "real" Bolton, obsessed with their history. In my headcanon, Ramsay was raised by Domeric, who was a new sort of Bolton, happy to let their history be scrubbed out by chivalry. Then he died in weird, unexplainable circumstances, after three years of Ramsay suffering under Roose without him. Ramsay went absolutely batshit, convinced Domeric's Southern ways angered the old gods, and the only way to be a true Bolton was to follow the old ways. 
> 
> In my defence, this is my rare pair haven, where all the strange and wonderful head canons and pairings get room to play. That's why Ramsay lives. Not because I like him as a person, but as a character and plot driver, he's fascinating. This is about a United North, all the North, not just the pieces that are admirable. And a Ramsay Bolton loyal to Robb? That's thrilling to me, so that's what you're getting ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	27. Gendry

THE INTREPID TRAVELLER

There’s many a first for Gendry, on the road North. He wakes up in inns, taverns and shepherd’s huts alike, often forgetting where he is, shocked to find himself in wide, open country that smells of sweet, clean air. For a Flea Bottom street rat such as himself, he never thought he’d leave the walls of King’s Landing. Never mind travel almost the length of Westeros to his new home. Never gave it much thought, neither. Smallfolk didn’t move ‘round much, 'cept to go looking for work, and there was plenty work to be found right there.

Gendry’s stomach turns to wet rags whenever he thinks on his destination, heavy with fright. What’s he know about the North, and their strange ancient ways? Swearing by the old gods and the new is something he’s said, but has he ever truly meant it? Could he have, when he’s never seen a bloody weirwood in his life? They keep the old ways up there, Yoren warns the lads bound for the Night’s Watch. Never thinks to mention what exactly these old ways are, though, the bastard. Enjoys seeing the lads squirm. Gendry wishes it didn’t have the same effect on him.

He is travelling with them, because Lord Baratheon, the king’s brother no less, bid it so. Ned Stark is in need of an apprentice smith. Why not a single lad in the North, or any other Kingdom a mite closer, isn’t good enough, Gendry doesn’t question. He’s not in the habit of questioning Lords, see, nor the onion knights they send to do their bidding. Mostly just does as he’s told, and keeps to the forge whenever old Mott is wrangling coin out of them. 

Now here he is, on his way to present himself to one, carrying a bound scroll, official like. Gendry keeps it hid, knowing greedy folk will always want to be taking what’s not theirs to take. Not that most of them could read whatever Lord Baratheon has written on it, anyway. Gendry couldn’t, though he traces the name on the outside with interest. 

“Says, ‘Lord Eddard Stark’,” Yoren tells him, when Gendry is too curious not to ponder over it, in a rare moment alone.

Gendry flushes guiltily, despite not doing much out of turn. Simply embarrassed to be caught. He shoves the missive deep into his pack then, and resolves not to stare at it any longer. He’ll never find out what’s inside by staring at the blank parchment outside, besides.

It’s the first missive he’s ever delivered, same as every step he takes is the furthest he’s been from home, once they leave the city gates. He admires foreign rivers and gapes at the first mountains he encounters; huge jagged towers of rock, powerful as they carve up the skyline. The trees and plants change as they cross from the Riverlands into the Vale, picking up prisoners and desperate men as they go. 

The Mountains of the Moon are mesmerising, the Vale a glistening country of rock and shale unlike anything he could ever have imagined. If Gendry had a choice, he would settle here, in some small town. Maybe find a pretty Vale girl, that would be happy to take the only smith for miles for a husband. It’s an idle dream, but a good one. It carries him back into the Riverlands, a soft smile on his lips during quiet moments.

Bandits try to rob them on the road; five miserly men, none of them a match for Yoren and his two Wandering Crow companions. Gendry wallops one with a solid branch when he reaches for his pack. The two wretched survivors join the traipsing procession toward the Wall, the Black Knights opting not to inform any lords of their swift application of justice. 

It’s hardly a banishment to the Wall offense. But holding them up by detouring to the castle of whatever lord’s land they’re on, might be, for Yoren. The man is itching to get North, or so he claims. Gendry wonders if the burden of escorting him has anything to do with it; the Crow hadn’t been pleased with Lord Baratheon’s insistence they take him. If Ned Stark wanted him, he should have sent an envoy of his own, Yoren grumbles. But Lords rarely stick to the rules if they can find a way to flout them. Gendry supposes that even Northmen must not be different in that respect.

They cross the Trident at the Twins, hosted for two nights in the miserable keeps there. The ratty looking Freys are innumerable and barely distinguishable from their pock-marked servants, in their roughly hewn clothes. Gendry hadn’t thought he’d ever compare a lord’s castle to a Flea Bottom tavern, and yet he finds himself doing so. The same stench of sour ale and despair lingers in the air. Lord Walder Frey, a shrivelled old man sunken deep into his wooden throne, merely laughs when his daughters, or granddaughters, accost Gendry. Almost wrenching him apart in their attempts to claw at him, squeezing the muscles of his arms.

He doesn’t intend to fuck the pretty, plump one entirely covered in freckles. But when he stumbles out of the hall in a daze, escaping clawing hands, he seeks refuge in a storeroom beside the kitchens. And there she is, darning socks. She’s not the first to tumble him, but certainly the loudest, big breasts bouncing in his face, as she works herself up and down. The girl has a knee on the barrels either side of him, while he sits on one in the middle, barely holding on. It’s only after, that he realises who she is. Her frilly, pink dress is entirely covered in ruffles, and far too elaborate to be a servant’s garb. With that, Walda Frey becomes the first highborn girl he fucks, surprised by just how pleasant it was, especially when she giggles and kisses him after, plump bosoms jiggling.

When they cross from the Riverlands into the North, there’s nothing to show for it, no stone statue of wolves or sudden arrival of a blizzard. There is no question the land is different; the mud thick with water, queer spindly plants, and squat trees with bare, exposed roots, rising up from it. Gendry has never seen marshlands before, and is warned from straying from the ‘path’ between bogs. He sees no such road, receiving only snorts of laughter when he asks how in the Seven Hells the Crows know where to step. 

As if guided by his words, small, fur-clad men and women melt from amongst the trees, like shadows made flesh. They are unnaturally small, all carrying spears or bows, even the women. They make no sound as they appear, and continue to stare, silent and eerie, until Yoren hails them. Gendry has never heard of a crannogman, but apparently that’s who these small, creepy people are.

“Your first time meeting a Northman, eh?” A raper sneers, spitting in disgust, “Savages, all of them, not least these little frog-eaters.”

Gendry ignores him, fascinated by the petite, quiet people. They leap from stone to tussock, sure footed, following invisible routes, their heads held high in dignity. Gendry wouldn’t be able to name them for smallfolk or the Northern version of knights, or even low, masterly lords. Something about their high cheekbones and small stature is alien to him, and their eyes seem unnaturally large. He ducks head, not keen to get caught staring. They all seem dignified people, refined in the confident way of highborns, no matter the Kingdom.

Eventually, their party comes to rest at the edge of a bog that is more of lake, the crannogmen all facing west, as though waiting for something. It appears from the mist as though summoned by horn; a little island, covered in grass and reeds, lazily floating toward them. The crannogmen lasso it with the deft use of ropes and a fishing net. They drag the rock, which is about the length of a rowboat but rather wider, toward them. Crannogmen confidently pile onto it, a Crow and several recruits joining them. The floating island is released, as Gendry watches, enchanted. It bobs away, quickly lost in the fog. 

Another island appears in due course, smaller than the first, and the process repeats. Gendry joins the third island, utterly charmed as they float through the lake. It is magical. No matter what the Septons sometimes used to preach on the Street of Silk, about the sins of the flesh, and how magic had died from the world along with the dragons. 

The crannogmen use their broad-headed spears as oars, directing the island down what might generously be named a river. It is really just boggy water that moves at a faster pace than the boggy water surrounding it. Still, it’s an experience unlike any other. To sit on solid ground in mossy grass, yet move as though on a boat. Not that Gendry has ever been on any boats, nor learned to swim. But he supposes the sensation must be somewhat similar.

“They’re strange-looking ‘cause they breed with Children of the Forest.” A greybeard whispers, as they sweep across the water. He raises his voice to ask; “Do they live with you still? Any of the pure-blooded old ones?”

A marsh-boy with blonde, curly hair, who cannot be older than Gendry himself, fixes the old man with a look. He deliberates for a moment, before kneeling beside the old man, cupping his mouth to his ear. The greybeard’s wizened face breaks into an almost toothless grin. Clearly very pleased with whatever the boy said. Gendry itches with curisority, wondering if there is any chance it is true. 

The trip lasts for hours; Gendry drifts to sleep before he realises he’s even tired. He wakes to find the stars blazing above him, the gentle lap of water sloshing and soothing, while frogs ribbit and crickets sing. To his astonishment, fat little bugs rise from the green leaf-pads floating in the marsh, their bodies glowing an acidic shade of yellow-green.

“Firebugs,” the young, curly-haired crannogman says, seeing the question in his eyes. “They glow at night, even in the Winter.”

When the crannogmen leave them, keeping the secrets of their parentage to themselves, Gendry is sad to see them go. He appreciated their quietness, their surety. After the last island had alighted, they carry on only a short distance before an ancient ruin with three wonky towers is put to good use. Gendry is asleep before he has to suffer the snoring of his companions.

*

The North is biting cold, even before Gendry gets his first glimpse of snow. After two days of walking in less perilous marshes, the land becomes a grassy, open plain. The wind nips at his cheeks and fingers, as they pass over rolling green hills. It’s not the bleak land he was expecting in the North, though Gendry notices none of the fields they steadily march through have been tilled for farming, like they saw in the Riverlands.

“Don’t they grow things, in the North?” He asks, feeling stupid even as the words leave his mouth, “Vegtables, and the like?”

“Aye, lad,” Yoren sneers, “But not here. See those uneven lumps?”

Gendry nods, because the land here is nothing but lumps, small hillocks pitting and plumping the land as far as the eye can see.

“Those are barrows, boy. Tombs of the First Men. You’re walking through the Land of the Dead, here.”

Gendry blanches at that, appalled at the sheer number. 

“You’ll not see the Great Barrow from here, but it’s more than double the size of these. The Tomb of the First King, a giant.”

Somehow, Gendry believes it. This land is old; the trees appeared to be more ancient than anything that grew in the South. As though they passed though some invisible barrier in the swamp Neck and emerged in an older realm, a land of mysterious power. 

With Winterfell only a few days away, he grows impatient to finally arrive, but also more nervous. They all gained cloaks along the road in the Riverlands, but they aren’t nearly thick enough now that they have left the muggy, close air in the Neck. More are acquired from an inn on the Kingsroad, heavy with ratty fur, but better than going without. Gendry fears he will lose his nose from the continued exposure to cold he couldn’t have imagined existed.

He sees snow then, and all his sour thoughts are forgotten. It is beautiful, perfect frozen crystals that drift down from the sky in tiny flakes, covering the world in a clean, bright white. It forms a soft powder to walk on, like pacing through clouds of flour. In the sunlight, it blazes like fire, silver shimmers dancing at every angle. Nothing could compare to its clarity. Gendry wants to stare at it for days, but he’ll freeze to death if he stops moving, no doubt about it.

The first real Northern castle he sees is named Castle Cerwyn, though Gendry isn’t allowed inside the walls, of course. It lies directly on the Kingsroad, with a small town consisting of wooden shacks and some brick houses, including several inns, which are really taverns, with a few spare rooms. It is only half a day’s ride from here to Winter Town, they are told, which is where the Night’s Watch recruits will be staying whilst Yoren escorts Gendry to Winterfell. The day has grown long though, and Gendry enjoys his bowl of hot vegetable soup, finding it better than any bowl of brown he ever tasted. He does his best not to dwell on what the morrow will bring him. The inn is heaving with people; apparently, every vassal House of the North is travelling to Winterfell, for a huge festival. A troop of mummers is camped directly outside, in brightly coloured tents, lively with music and raucous laughter.

“What’s the occasion?” Gendry asks, wondering if these kinds of celebrations are annual. If the smallfolk are often this excited, the North might not be such a dour, grim place to live after all.

“Lord Stark’s eldest daughter is betrothed,” a tavern wench tells him with a sultry smile. Her cheer dips a little when she adds; “To a filthy Ironman.”

Gendry knows less about the Ironborn than he does about the Northmen, except King Robert went to war with them once. It does seem an odd choice for the Warden of the North’s eldest daughter, but what would he know of such matters? He offers the woman a commiserating smile, the only response he can offer.

Winterfell is the largest structure he has seen since leaving King’s Landing, though entirely different than the Red Keep. Its turrets are old, held together by huge grey stones that have stood since the Age of Heroes. One of the towers is hidden by wooden scaffolding, the sound of busy men working reaching him before they come into view. Rocks are being hoisted by ropes and pulleys, tired dray horses taking the brunt of the work. 

Gendry is led into the central courtyard, filled with all the noise of a working fort; servants carrying firewood, laundry, foodstuffs and furs, whilst others are hanging garlands of pine and conifer to decorate every wall. After introducing themselves to a guard, they are directed to an clean, empty room, with a single table not yet set for dinner. As they pass through two corridors to get there, Gendry can see that maids are busy scrubbing every inch of the castle, spreading billowing, fresh sheets over each table, hanging wreaths of flowers on every door. 

They are left under the watchful eye of a single guard, dressed in boiled leather armour, with a pike in his hand and a scowl on his heavily bearded face. Gendry has yet to see a man in the North in armour, and wonders if he will be of much use here. There are only so many swords and tools a man can make, before the armoury is full. 

Lord Stark reminds him of Lord Baratheon a little; though very different in looks, they share the same humourless countenance. Lord Stark listens to Yoren’s explanation of Gendry’s origins, his training with Master Mott, and how Lord Baratheon thought him exactly the sort of boy Stark was after. Then Gendry hands over the scroll he has kept safe these long miles.

Lord Stark assesses the unbroken Baratheon seal carefully, before breaking it open, and reading the words within. His face gives little away, but something about the darkening of his eyes looks like shock to Gendry. The Lord Paramount of the North peers up at him, running his eyes over Gendry’s face and shoulders, a thorough look. He wants to shrink away, but settles for clasping his hands together nervously behind his back.

At long last, Lord Stark nods at him, deliberately folding the letter small and tucking it into his jerkin. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Gendry. I hope you will be happy here.” Lord Stark smiles at him then, and the knot in his stomach eases then, allowing Gendry to take a deep breath.

He has finally arrived at in his new home, but in many ways, his journey has just begun. It’s funny how you never recognise the significant pieces as the clues they are until something forces you. Years from now, Gendry will remember the letter clenched in Ned Stark’s hands, the look of alarm on his face, and wonder why he wasn’t more curious about what it might have said.

*

Mikken, the Winterfell smith, is a gruff, broad-shouldered man, who likes everything in the forge kept in a particular place. Gendry receives many a cuff to the ear until he works this out. Mikken gets his orders from the master-at-arms Ser Rodrick, most of the time. Swords that need blunting, throwing daggers, arrow-heads and other small weapons that need forging or fixing. Gendry quickly settles into the forge, growing to learn about the household gradually, because Mikken isn’t one to gossip. Here at Winterfell, the servants of the castle eat often with the Lord and Lady, and their many children. Gendry finds himself crammed between Hullen, the master of horse, his stable boys, and several men working on what everyone refers to as the Broken Tower. 

The first Stark he meets aside from his first meeting with Lord Eddard, is the heir, Robb. After less than a sennight in Winterfell, Gendry is stoking the fires of the forge when a man clears his throat. He looks up to see one of the Lord’s sons standing over him, a redhead with bright blue eyes, and a wide grin on his face. Cheerful lordlings tended to be the most cruel in King’s Landing, so Gendry bows respectfully, and keeps his eyes trained somewhere about the young Stark’s chin.

“Gendry, isn’t it?” The boy is probably of an age with him, maybe a little younger.

“Yes m’lord.” He replies promptly.

The friendly clap on his shoulder has him rocking on the balls of his feet, having not anticipated it.

“I’m Robb Stark, eldest son of Eddard Stark.” he declares, which Gendry was not expecting. There are at least four other Stark boys that sit at the top table, one of whom is at somewhat older than this one. Cousins, perhaps. 

“Are you settling in well?” the young lord asks, “Quarters alright?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Gendry has never had a room of his own, with a pallet of fresh straw. He blushes to be enquired after, as though he were a visiting guest.

“Come on, I told Mikken I’m borrowing you for the day.” Lord Robb declares, charging back out of the smithy, Gendry following meekly. The boy leads him across the courtyard, past the training yard where guards are drilling, and out a gate Gendry has not yet passed through. They are quickly swallowed up by woods, unfamiliar trees rustling loudly. A dark pool of water radiates an unnatural heat as they skirt beside it, following the winding path.

“It’s all Sansa’s fault, really.” Lord Robb explains, “She takes all the best players for her side. You’d think I’d be the more popular choice, but no. I get lumped with all the little ones. Jon and Theon can never agree on a single thing, but they’re happy to team up to beat me, so long as its for Sansa.”

Lord Robb rolls his eyes at this injustice, pouting as his explanation comes to an end. Gendry tries not to let on that absolutely nothing has been made clearer to him, not knowing who Sansa, Theon or Jon might be.

“I’m sick of being defeated!” Lord Robb grouses. 

They step into a clearing, where a group of youths are lounging. Gendry recognises most of them from the high table in the hall when the Starks eat with their servants. There are four older lads, three older girls, a younger girl and two little boys. Four of them share Lord Robb’s red hair, though one of the lads has a far lighter shade. The others share the dark hair characteristic of Northmen. All save for one girl, whose hair is a bright, vibrant shade of green. Gendry can’t help but stare at that.

“This is Gendry!” Lord Robb introduces him cheerfully, pointing to the others in quick succession. The two boys leaning on the same tree are Domeric and Ramsay. The boy with his arms hooked over the only redheaded girl’s shoulders is Theon, whilst the beautiful girl in his arms is Sansa. Jon is the one with the smallest boy, Rickon, on his shoulders. Then there are the girls, Wylla and Wynafryd, the former being the one with the creative hair colour. Bran and Arya are the final two children, the last scurrying over to him.

No titles, family names or Houses are given, which is unnerving, but Gendry reasons that treating them all as he does Lord Robb should stand him in good stead.

“The rules are pretty simple,” the youngest girl says, holding out a green ribbon to him. “You tie the coloured sash on, somewhere everyone can see it, and someone on the other team has to steal it. The team that gets all the other ribbons first wins.”

Dutifully, Gendry ties the ribbon on to his belt, at his hip.

“You’re not the only new player,” Domeric assures him, “None of us have ever played this game either.” He indicates himself, Ramsay, and the two eldest girls.

“If you lose your ribbon, you have to sit and watch!” Robb reminds them, as they split into their rival factions.

After Gendry, the rest of Robb’s team consists of Bran, Arya, Wynafryd and Wylla, whereas Sansa has claimed all the older lads and little Rickon for her team. They are wearing silvery grey ribbons. While Sansa counts out loud, the two factions separate into the woods, walking in opposite directions. When her voice stops calling out, they continue sneaking through the trees with exaggerated caution. Gendry expects a game played by highborn children to conducted with some decorum. In reality, all hell breaks loose. 

After a few long moments of blessed peace, crouching behind a shrub, he is tackled to the ground by Theon, and narrowly avoids knocking Wylla over as he rolls free. He scampers off between the tall trees before he can be attacked again. They are all chasing one another, twisting out of holds, laughing and sliding in the mud, clutching onto trees for balance.

Gendry sees Arya, cornered by Jon. He watches in astonishment as the little girl shoves a handful of mud in Jon’s face, before making off with his ribbon. She doesn’t get far, before Ramsay lifts her into the air by the scruff of her dress, and claims her ribbon for himself. Gendry clean forgets to attempt to get ribbons, too busy avoiding being leapt on by raucous children. 

He watches the delicate-looking Sansa jump onto Robb’s back, refusing to let go, even when Rickon has safely untied the ribbon laced on his boot. Gendry lets out an incredulous bark of laughter at their antics, before finally deciding to get stuck in. He rushes forward, and rips off Ramsay’s ribbon. This earns him a kick in the shins, and the loss of his own ribbon when Domeric sneaks up behind him.

In the end, their team wins by default. Bran refuses to come down from the tree he has climbed until they declare it so, flaunting his ribbon in victory. They return to the clearing, which contains a pile of waterskins, and a satchel containing bread, cheese and pieces of cured ham, enough to share with everyone. Too tired to care about etiquette, Gendry gladly accepts the food and drink offered to him. Joining in with the laugher when Sansa clucks over Jon’s muddied face and cleans him with a handkerchief, as though he were her babe. 

It might be most carefree fun Gendry has ever had. He can hardly believe it was the result of playing with highborn children. It is the first time he interacts with the Starks, a morning of silly games. It solidifies his understanding of Winterfell, and his place within it. He might be a street rat, but here he is expected to play with and befriend the people his age, regardless of their status. And as the moons pass, he will not forget that it was Robb Stark who first extended the hand of friendship to him, here in the frozen North.


	28. Sansa XIV

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Work on Robb’s tower progresses at a steady pace, without much difficulty. The smallfolk begin to refer to it as such, as after a few moons of solid work on the lower structure, it cannot really be called ‘broken’ any more. Robb puffs up with pride whenever he hears the phrase, and decides to add his own flair to the project, commissioning a stonemason to carve direwolf gargoyles to be placed at strategic junctures where stones are missing.

Sansa volunteers to sort through the dusty wreckage of old belongings that used to be stored there, before work began. Most of it is useless; mouldy old desks, moth-eaten furs, ripped tapestries, ugly candlesticks that were probably unwanted gifts for some unfortunate lord of ages past. She does find some gems however; chests that can be cleaned and polished until the wood gleams, and a trunk of thick blankets, plain but salvageable. Inexplicably, Sansa finds a beautiful Stark maiden’s cloak. It is pale grey and covered in blue winter roses, grey and blue embroidered weirwoods, with a repeating pattern of black and silver wolves running in a border around every edge. The entire cloak is covered in tiny seed pearls, some of which dangle by loosened thread, but that is easily fixed.

Intrigued, Sansa takes the beautiful piece inside the keep to be washed, overseeing the maids cleaning it, almost afraid to lose it. Father’s brow wrinkles when she presents it to him, running his fingers gently over the fur-lined silk.

“This was my mother’s,” he admits, “She was a Stark by birth, as you know. It was meant to pass to my sister.”

He stops then, as ever unwilling to say more. They have not spoken in depth, since Sansa forced his hand regarding her betrothal. Since then, he has been preoccupied by the dire warnings of the wildlings, which Sansa only knows of because of Benjen. She attempted to sneak down to the cells to speak to the prisoners herself, but was quickly turned away by the guards. Unlike Maester Luwin and Old Nan, they cannot be relied upon to sleep on the job and allow her to go about her business.

Benjen tells her that the wildlings are clearly afraid of something, perhaps a particularly powerful clan that is swallowing up territory. When Sansa tentatively enquires if their stories in any way resemble Old Nan’s tales of the Long Night, he twitches and gives a funny shudder, and refuses to answer. But he takes the wildlings back to Castle Black with him, after several hours locked in private discussions with Father, and that is something at least.

Preparations for the grand celebration feast continue to stress Mother, who covers ream after ream of parchment with lists of ingredients, bolts of fabric, and furs required, and orders for sundries such as oil, firewood, candlesticks and even cutlery. New wall hangings have to be sewn, to hang in any room with more than one bare wall. The castle is a-flutter with suggestions for who might come to visit. Sansa herself is keen to see old, familiar faces, long before they are harrowed by the effects of war. She wonders if the tiny, fierce Lyanna Mormont will be among them, as a child of five should be considered old enough to travel. Ned Umber is just a year younger than her, making him a perfect companion for Rickon. She hopes the two of them will both come; not in the least because she wants Rickon to be matched with Lyanna. This will go a great way to solidifying Northern support when Robb becomes King, if his heir apparent is already betrothed to a stable, respected Northern House.

The Cerwyns and Forresters are already here; Cley Cerwyn, Ethan and Rodrik Forrester sparring with Robb and Domeric on an almost daily basis. Jonelle Cerwyn, Mira and Talia Forrester join Sansa’s sewing circle, though the Forrester girls spurn Septa Mordane’s instruction at every turn. They are devoted to the old gods, and pray in the godswood every morning. The young ladies appear quite horrified that the Warden of the North’s daughters have a member of the Faith as a tutor. They get along well with the Manderly girls however, despite the fact they all seem to be vying for Robb’s attention.

Mother is already fretting at the idea of the Whitehills arriving before there are enough bannermen to provide a buffer between them and their sworn enemies, the Forresters. Especially since the Glovers have not yet arrived; House Whitehill are sworn vassals of House Bolton, and it will make things awkward indeed, if the Forresters do not have the support of their own overlord House. Mother makes sure the Bolton and Forrester rooms are situated as far apart as possible, intending to stow their supporters close to them, to ensure each family feels secure, with allies nearby.

The Ironborns arrive earlier than expected, causing a commotion, with their uncouth manners and insistence on remaining armed at all times. Theon’s sister has not come, but his distant relation, Uncle Dagmer has, as well his actual Uncle Victarion, a beast of a man, of very few words. They are not the most well-received by Theon though, despite his clear joy at having relatives to celebrate a happy circumstance in his life with. No, that honour falls to a lady whose dark hair is streaked with silver, with pale green-blue eyes. She walks with the aid of an older woman, whose hair is the exact same shade of pale golden red as Theon’s.

After the Ironborn alight their borrowed horses, and the rest receive bread and salt in the central courtyard of Winterfell, Theon charges forward, his face slack with disbelief.

“Mother?” he calls, taking the silver and dark-haired lady’s hands into his own. She stares at him without comprehension for a long, uncomfortable moment, before her face crumples, and she begins to weep.

“My baby,” She wails, scrabbling at Theon’s shoulders, smoothing her hands across his ashen face, before clutching him to her breast. She refuses to let him go, even when the remainder of their party is keen to get warm inside. The lady who shares Theon’s hair colouring is referred to by him as Aunt Gwynesse, and is the only one who can get Lady Greyjoy moving. She leans heavily on Theon, keeping him wrapped in her arms.

Despite their initial mistrust, Mother seems to warm to Gwynesse Harlaw, who is a woman that tolerates no nonsense, but is never crude or short with the servants. Mother must be grateful for the help at keeping them all in line, as her waist thickens and her ankles swell. Roose Bolton seems intrigued by Victarion Greyjoy, and Sansa shudders to think on whatever keeps them in rapt discussion. Though none of the Northern houses is particularly warm toward the Ironborn, no actual fights break out. Ethan Forrester seems particularly leery of them, cringing out of their way when he encounters them.

Alannys Greyjoy spends most of her time sitting by the fireside in her room. Theon visits her at least once a day, holding her spindly fingers within his own. She doesn’t talk much, seeming to forget where she is and who her companions are. She always remembers Theon after a short moment. Theon doesn’t succeed in having her refer to him as anything other than her baby. He is only mildly annoyed about it. He seems so pleased to have her here, to much care that she often asks after his dead brothers, and strokes his hair as though he were a child Bran’s age.

Some days, Theon even manages to coax her out of her room, to take a slow turn about the glass gardens. Alannys is enchanted by the bright flowers, especially the vibrant orange and yellow ones. Theon takes to threading one or two into her dark locks. Sansa teaches him how to tuck them into a twist of hair, so that they won’t fall out. Domeric Bolton seems especially moved by this show of devotion, and offers to play his harp for her. Alannys never seems more peaceful than when sitting in the glass gardens, clutching Theon’s hand in both of her own, her eyes serenely closed, as Domeric weaves his blissful music.

Sansa finally fulfills her promise to ride out with Domeric, putting Sunbeam through her paces as they gallop through the wolfswood. Jonelle Cerwyn is a keen rider also, and joins at their back, along with Ramsay Snow and Jory Cassel. Sansa never thought there would come a time when she would be comfortable in the company of two Boltons, without any of her brothers to provide protection. But truthfully, she is not so afraid of this Ramsay, who is still in many ways a green boy. He looks to Domeric for direction in most things. Without the manic smile on his handsome face, he stops being a waking reminder of her nightmares. Sansa would never allow herself to be alone with him. But her skin no longer crawls in outright terror of him, whenever he is near her.

*

Private moments with Theon are more difficult to snatch, with so many other people in the castle demanding their attentions. Still, Sansa makes an effort to seek him out, if too many hours go by without one of his salacious smiles directed her way. She craves his hands skimming across her body, his tongue in her mouth, his teeth nipping at her neck and ear as he cradles her close. She breathes him in, when he steps near and brings her hand closer to her chest, as she learns the method for close-range archery. Dagger-throwing practice doesn’t hold the same temptation, but she enjoys attempting to best him, cheering in victory whenever her blades hit their mark.

Her parents are leery of letting her learn hand-to-hand combat, but since she’s already hidden several moons worth of sparring one-on-one with Theon from them, they can’t do much to stop her. During her first official lesson, she lays Robb flat on his back, and socks Jon in the mouth when he attempts to go too easy on her. After that, she enjoys some physical sparring as well as the verbal kind, though she is forbidden close-range weapons. Having pushed her luck thus far, she makes this small concession to her parent’s wishes.

“You’d make a formidable enemy, my love,” Theon predicts, when she offers him a hand up, after sweeping his feet out from under him. She flushes at the endearment, pleased and proud that he could love a woman that wants to fight.

By the time Gendry arrives from King’s Landing, Winterfell has become a hubbub of activity and Northern unification, as the future rulers of the great Houses grow closer by the day.

Domeric Bolton puts forth an official suit for Wylla Manderly, and the two begin an authorised courtship. Roose Bolton seems mollified at the idea of tying his House to the richest in the North, though he makes it explicitly clear no Sept will ever be built at the Dreadfort.

Winterfell and Winter Town are brimming with life and hope, and with so many workers at his disposal, Robb’s Tower is almost complete by the time the Martells arrive.

*

Sansa never really knew Oberyn Martell, though she formed an impression of him from afar. Tyrion Lannister spoke of him fondly. Knowing he had the gumption to bring his paramour to King’s Landing, she knows to expect Ellaria Sand to accompany Oberyn. Thus she does not share her parent’s mortification at her being publically introduced as such. The Martell contingent are wrapped in expensive furs from Pentos, in warm colours ranging from burnt orange to sunny yellow, bloody crimson and rust bronze. Sansa did not know which Sand Snakes to expect, but curtseys to the four that arrive as she would any highborn girl, ignoring the derision in their eyes. She has nothing to prove to these sneering girls, and it can only be to her benefit, if they underestimate her. Jon seems fascinated by these publically cherished bastards. Sansa warns him that the Dornish are hot-blooded, and that the girls will not be maidens, charmed by his innocence.

“They will use your inexperience to manipulate you,” she cautions, “And do not suppose they will be interested in a marriage. You once said you would never father a bastard of your own, though I suppose one raised in Dorne would not suffer as elsewhere in Westeros.”

Jon blushes fiercely at her frankness, mumbling that he was only interested in their foreign ways, funny accents and lovely dark skin. She sees how Oberyn Martell’s eyes follow him about the room, probably searching for the shadow of Rhaegar in Jon’s sleek features. No doubt Oberyn learnt as much as possible about the ‘Bastard of Winterfell’ before ever setting foot in the North.

Quentyn Martell is the least flamboyant of the Martells. He leaves the least prominent impression, being a shy sort. Not one to volunteer his opinion, or push his way into the training yard like his base-born cousins. That will not do for Sansa’s plans at all, as Quentyn is the one that can really secure House Martell to their cause. Being in line to be Doran’s heir, should Arianne make a match which could give her control over the Seven Kingdoms, Quentyn is the one that needs to be tied to the North. Sansa hopes the bonds of friendship can grow strong enough to matter during his stay. She is not sure any Northern girl could stand to travel so far from home. She could be wrong however, as the lure of being named ‘Princess’ is apparently enough to garner interest from Wynafryd Manderly and Alys Karstark, despite Quentyn’s rather dull lack of Dornish fire. Quentyn enjoys to play cyvasse, one point in his favour, at the least.

The sennight-long betrothal festivities include three huge feasts, a hunt and several feats of fighting prowess, including an archery competition Sansa intends to win, dancing, Braavosi acrobats and jugglers, and a mummer’s troop sent by her grandfather, whose health prevented him from travelling. Edmure Tully is in attendance though. Affording Sansa an opportunity to raise her eyebrows at Robb in vindication, as they watch him boasting and drinking at the opening feast of the festivities. He flusters the serving girls and ignores Jon’s presence to the point of flagrant rudeness. He insults Theon, upsets Mother when she tentatively asks after his own marriage plans, and sneers at Father whenever someone pays the Lord of Winterfell a compliment.

Bran eyes their uncle with disgust, a glint of something wicked in his eyes when he later informs Sansa; “I’m going to steal his seat and all his titles. That will teach him to be mean to Jon and rude to Father.”

“Quite right,” Sansa agrees, tucking his bed covers all about him, before leaning down to press a kiss to his brow.

*

The hunt is only a short one of three days; men come and go, past the acrobats that perform feats in the courtyard each day, juggling leather balls, eggs, daggers and finally swords. Theon tells Sansa about the traditional Ironborn game of Fingerdancing, culminating in the gruesome tale of his Uncle Urrigon’s death.

“Father had his revenge though,” Theon sniffs, “He had the stupid maester’s fingers chopped off and sewn back on, just like he did to Urrigon. They say the man died in agony, raving with madness.”

“How fitting,” Sansa replies, nauseated. She resolves to forbid Theon from playing the game, if he ever wants to lay with her as man and wife should. She remembers well what he looked like, with his fingers missing.

The archery competition draws attention from every House. Sansa is not the only woman taking part, either; Lyra Mormont is very good, as is her mother Maege. Meera Reed is better than all of them, Sansa included. She fears a fight will break out when a Whitehill attempts to stop Ramsay Snow from stepping into position, to take his turn.

“The games aren’t open to you, bastard.” He sneers, a hand roughly pushing into Ramsay’s chest. Sansa sees Domeric snap to attention, a murderously dark look on his face, and charges forward to prevent the inevitable bloodshed. In the world she came from, that Whitehill would lose a hand for such insolence.

“The competition is open to everyone, my lord,” she corrects him, her voice edged with steel.

“You don’t want a bastard boy taking part in your betrothal celebrations, Lady Sansa,” the man says, attempting to tell her how she should feel.

“Sooner a baseborn than a buffoon, Ser,” she snaps, “So step aside.”

She can hardly believe she is defending Ramsay Bolton to anyone, over anything, but the gratified look she receives from Domeric tells her it was the right thing to do.

Naturally, Ramsay wins. The proud smile on his face at the weirwood bow he receives from her Father, the grand prize for the winner, is the first time she has seen his face light up with genuine pleasure. It might be the strangest thing she has yet seen, in this new world.

The Martell girls perform wonderfully in the spear throwing competition, most Northmen not proficient with the weapons. The crannogmen are their only real challengers, but Nymeria Sand manages to best them all.

Theon gains credit for the best kill of the hunt, taking down an elk that requires four strong men to drag it back to the keep. Domeric insists he is going to compose a song about it, in awe of the single arrow that brought it down, lodged deep in the animal’s heart.

Though she has fun dancing, twirled around by Northmen, Ironborn, Dornish and her betrothed, perhaps the most gratifying moment for Sansa comes when they are watching the mummers perform the tragic tale of Florian and Jonquil. Alannys Greyjoy, who is lost in her own head for most of the time, begins to weep during the final act of the performance. She is sat between Theon and Sansa. So Sansa can clearly hear her, when she sings along softly under her breath, to the well-known song about the lovers. In the final throes of the show, she reaches over to grasp Sansa’s hand. Theon's mother looks her in the eye, with a gaze that is for once lucid and knowing. She offers Sansa a watery smile and a nod, perhaps the only approval Sansa feels truly humbled to have earned.


	29. Gwyn

THE SAGE TRAVELLER

_I did not know what to expect from the Greenlanders. Nothing good. My most potent memory of them back then was Quellon's vapid, selfish wife. A weak woman I longed to push off the cliffs of Pyke, for the entirety of her unfortunate tenure as the Lady of the Iles. I had expected them all to be cut from the same cloth as her. And that my time here would be spent lamenting the choices that others had made, which had resulted in my incarceration here. It is not so._

_I have made a companion of sorts out of Lady Catelyn, an amenable enough woman. Though she is as blinded by arrogance as all her Riverland kinsmen, she is at least strong enough to withstand any slight, and I admire her efforts. The children are a better advocates for Northern strength than their parents. Do not underestimate any of them. The bonds between them are true and would only grow moreso under pressure, especially that between the baseborn and the boys of his age, including our nephew, who is treated as another son by the Starks._

_Despite my ample misgivings, I have found that our sister improves steadily here, away from the salty sorrow of our homeland. I cannot decide if it is our nephew's presence that heartens her so, for he is a jolly boy and more mindful of Lanny than his selfish sister ever was, or if it simply Winterfell's lack of dark, gloomy rooms filled with the ghosts of her lost sons._ _Do not speak to me of Balon's desire to feast upon her grief-stricken face. He had ample opportunity when she was naught but a day or so away. Words are wind, and his posturing is cast upon the western gale and lost to me._

_Though mine own husband gave me a joy that will never be revisited upon me in this life, I confess I have found a kind of solace here, in one man in particular. He is the lord of a keep of some renown, of an age with myself or thereabouts, with no living wife. Do not think me spiteful if I refuse to return home in lieu of accepting his suit. I have tarried too long in empty halls myself. I deserve the opportunity to spend what life is left to me, bathing in the sunlight._

_Your affectionate sister,_

_Gwyn._


	30. Sansa XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancast for additional/ASOIAF only characters [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595529).
> 
> Maps, family trees etc [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615728).

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief once the guests begin to trickle away. Some parties are small and barely missed, other groups of bannermen vast, quickly decreasing the crammed hall when they depart. When the Ironborn are ready to take their leave, Alannys Greyjoy refuses to go, hysterically hanging onto Theon and sobbing so that Sansa thinks her heart might break. No amount of coaxing will from Gwynesse can sway her. Lady Stark is moved by the display, her hands dropping to her own heavy stomach before she intervenes.

Gwynesse and Mother work out the terms between themselves, secluded in Mother’s solar. Sansa stays with Theon the entire time. Alannys is inconsolable as she holds her son’s face to her shoulder. Mumbling nonsensically into his crown as she brushes his hair, damp from her tears, down past his ear. Sansa pretends not to notice Theon’s own red rimmed eyes. When Gwynesse returns, she announces they will be staying indefinitely.

“I’ll not leave my sister. My brother can keep his precious rocks,” she huffs, “He’ll be thrilled. He’s been denying my claim to them all these years.”

She sounds a little chagrinned, to have been ousted from her home without any warning. Her gaze softens when it settles on her sister though, still rocking and muttering under her breath, unwilling to be separated from her son.

The impatient Ironborn are furious when Gwynesse informs them they are expected to leave their liege Lord’s wife at the seat of their enemies. Angrily insisting she is handing the Starks another hostage.

“My sister is already a hostage of their own pain.” Lady Harlaw sneers, “Dragging her from her boy now might just snap the last threads of her mind. She’ll likely not survive the journey home, whether its from finally dying of grief or throwing herself overboard directly to the Drowned God’s halls.”

The burly, belligerent Ironborn men are chastened by that. Still, Victarion Greyjoy protests that he’ll not leave his brother’s wife unprotected from the Starks. Which is how the grisly Dagmer Cleftjaw and the Goodbrother triplets come to be permanent fixtures in Winterfell. Victarion Greyjoy himself might have stayed, were it not for his loyalty to his brother; not allowing him to make such a decision, without a direct order.

He makes it clear he’ll return for the Lady of the Iron Islands if ordered. It will likely be taken as an act of war if they refuse to hand her back under such circumstances. Lord Balon and his wife have been living apart for many years, her exact location shouldn’t matter much. But Sansa knows men can be funny about such things. She suspects Balon will object purely out of spite. Gwynesse writes a letter to her brother Rodrik, urging Victarion to deliver it first. Allowing Rodrik accompany him to smooth the news to her goodbrother, might make it better received. Victarion seems relieved to pass the responsibility into another’s hands, carefully tucking away the hastily scrawled missive.

It takes hours for Alannys to calm down enough to understand they aren’t leaving, and she is safe to fall asleep. Theon doesn’t leave her side all night. He sleeps in his Mother’s room, curled up under the furs at the foot of her bed, clutching onto her hand. Sansa suspects it might become a regular occurrence. Judging that it will take some time for Lady Greyjoy to settle, into something like her previous docile state. Though with Theon’s continued presence there is some hope for an improvement.

Aside from the party of Ironborn, the crannogmen also remain longer than the other vassal Houses, having the most distance travel. Therefore needing the longest time to recuperate. Domeric Bolton leaves for a time, but he is back before two turns of the moon, to continue his suit of Wylla. Ramsay is left at home in the Dreadfort, Sansa is pleased to see. Domeric claims to have forgotten is harp in his haste to return. Sansa suspects it was entirely intentional, to give his brother a chance to practice out of his hearing. And therefore the opportunity to surprise him, with newly learnt music when he returns.

Domeric continues to practice in the training yard against the Stark guardsmen. Robb and Jon stand stronger against his superior knowledge now. They all make daring attempts to best Dagmer Cleftjaw, who has taken over Theon’s training, as he is the master-of-arms for House Greyjoy. The man wields an axe quicker than any of their swords. Theon is dubious of fighting with battle-axes, considered primitive in the North, but after witnessing Dagmer best all comers without the use of a sword, he is converted.

Meera Reed’s sparring sessions with the Sand Snakes also become regular entertainment. She is bold and ruthless, not opposed to employing the underhand tricks that crannogmen are so derided for. Spear fights often devolve into punching, kicking and biting before the fight is declared done. Lyra Mormont oft joins them, sometimes allowing Arya a chance to stand against her, though it is clear she wants to learn the Dornish methods. She spends hours twirling her spear with the swift, fluid movements they have shown her.

“Rather lovely, isn’t she?” Robb sighs, as he watches Meera send Tyene sprawling into the dirt with a solid kick to the chest.

“Tyene?” asks Jon, eyes wide. The Dornish girls are fierce, and they are all a little scared of them.

“Meera,” Robb counters with a soft smile, resting his chin on his fist. Sansa stares incredulously, unnoticed by her besotted brother. She shares an amused look with Jon. Well, at least the Reeds are famously loyal. Perhaps if Meera doesn’t spend the next few years of her life trekking toward the Land of Always Winter, something can come of it.

When the Mormonts leave, Maege asks Father to allow Lyra to stay and continue her lessons with Oberyn’s girls. Sansa now shares her sewing circle with Wylla, Wynafryd, Lyra and Meera. Though Nymeria and Tyene sneer when she invites them, Sarella Sand chooses to join them, sometimes accompanied by Ellaria. It is much nicer to spread the Manderly girls attention among the other ladies, as they no longer focus on pumping Sansa for information.

Sarella is insatiably curious, but her questions are about Northern history and customs. She explains how Dornish dresses are threaded together, and that they have some dresses made by seamstresses in Volantis. She teaches them these techniques in return for tips on embroidery and how to clinch fabric so it hangs in the Northern style.

Sarella adores Old Nan. She sneaks into the nursery to sit at her feet, and ask about the Last Hero, the Night’s King and his White Walker bride, and all manner of questions about the creatures that live beyond the Wall. Sarella is by far Sansa’s favourite of Oberyn’s daughters, as she is too busy being in awe to be rude or condescending about Northern womenfolk. She is also the only one of the Dornish party who carries a bow.

Along with Meera, she provides Sansa with some much needed female company in the practice yard. Arya too, has taken up the bow. Sansa never thought she would be teaching her sister arms, and not the opposite position. Arya is thrilled when Sansa repositions her fingers on the string, tilting her elbow, well-remembering Theon clucking about Sansa’s tendency to drop it, at the beginning.

When she isn’t pestering Lyra or the Sand Snakes for lessons, running away from Septa Mordane or shooting arrows with Sansa, Arya can be found in the smithy. She sits on whatever surface is available, swinging her legs and distracting Gendry with her nosy questions about King’s Landing. The boy has the patience of a Silent Sister, Sansa thinks, when she catches her sister poking about in the tool pots and attempting to lift his bull-shaped helm.

Gendry has been kept busy with requests for similar items, since Robb paraded his work about and commissioned a direwolf helm of his own. Since the work is not ostentatiously covered in vines or jewels or other Southron affectations, but rather fearsome in its simplicity, his popularity only grows. Domeric Bolton commissions an entirely new breastplate for his armour. He asks for a huge flayed man, intricately detailed. No doubt the macabre work will stir everyone’s interest in the man who forged it.

*

Sansa takes the decision to warn Jon Arryn that there is a conspiracy to end his line. She isn’t sure how it will be received, but guesses that plots and schemes of all kinds must have been uncovered all throughout his long tenure as Hand. Under her Red Wolf moniker, she generalises the danger to his House, insinuating that mockingbirds in the Vale grow weary of a lord and heir never seen. She vows it will be the only time she directly interferes with one of Baelish’s games.

She could not hope for a better outcome of her warnings. Mother talks of how she’d like to visit her sister who has inexplicably turned up at Riverrun, were it not for the babe preventing her travel. There is talk of Jon Arryn growing paranoid in his dotage, employing taste testers for all his food and drink in King's Landing. Mother shares her thoughts with Gwynesse, who has quickly become a fast friend. Despite Mother’s best efforts not to trust an Ironborn, even a woman. Gwynesse offers her thoughts whilst decimating a leg of chicken; “Sisters can be hard work. You’ve plenty o’ babes that require your attention more.”

Mother is somewhat mollified by that. Though she remains nervous, regarding any ravens that come from the Riverlands. Ever since Edmure was injured, on the road home. Apparently their party encountered bandits on the Kingsroad, causing Edmure’s horse to bolt and throw its rider. Nothing is said about the bandit’s origins, or punishment. Sansa suspects that Edmure was merely reckless or hapless, and fell from his horse in some clumsy accident. Whatever the cause, he dislocated his sword-arm shoulder. It has been popped back into its socket, but is not healing correctly.

Sansa feels guilty for all her ill-thoughts of her Uncle, remembering the lesser man Jaime Lannister became after losing his sword-hand. Then again, Edmure Tully is not one of the greatest swordsmen of his generation and a famed Kingsguard knight. He doesn’t need to be a great warrior to be a good lord to his people. Sansa suspects his insecurity over the injury will sour his already uncouth nature. She still fully intends to install Bran as a better alternative.

*

When the Reeds leave, the castle barely has enough time to breathe before they are replaced by the most unexpected guests imaginable. In the gloom of late evening, the warning horn sounds from the battlements, quickly followed by the shouts of guardsmen. The family are eating in the full hall. The outside commotion is given cause when Jory rushes in, running full tilt toward the high table.

“Riders approaching, my lord- Skaggs!” He pants, breathless with exertion, eyes wide with fear.

Father reacts immediately, leaping to his feet. “Lower the gate, send all men to the battlements. Robb! Get your mother and the children to the Great Keep. Boy,” this he directs to a stablehand, “Fetch my Greatsword.”

The children all know the threat is severe when Father calls for Ice.

“We’re not fitted for a seige,” Robb whispers, as he lifts Rickon into his arms, settling him on one hip. His other arm is given to Mother to lean on. “The stores are empty from all the visitors. We’ll not last a week.”

“Quiet,” Mother snaps, fear making her brittle, as they hurry down the stone passage. “The children don’t need to hear.”

Father sends men with them for protection, their steel bare already, as they lead the way, and defend the rear of their small group. Bran and Arya are ashen with fear, Rickon silent in response to the tension, Arya gripping Sansa’s hand so tight it hurts. She doesn’t tell her to let go.

Had it not been for Robb’s keen, watchful eye, they might have snuck away to watch the Skagosi ride up from the battlements. But the heir of Winterfell takes his duties seriously, when directly ordered in terse situations. So they wait together in the nursery, huddled like baby birds, for the sound of battle to commence. Sansa sings a sweet lullaby, Mother quickly joining in. It appears to calm the room somewhat, allowing Rickon to drift into sleep. The rest of them are not so lucky.

It seems like days before Father returns to tell them all is safe. In reality, it is deep into the hour of the wolf. Though curious, their questions will not get answers until the following morn, and they reluctantly traipse off to bed. Of course they all end up in Robb’s room, piled on his bed and whispering tales of terror of the fearsome man-eating Skaggs, until the sun begins to crest the horizon.

Mother clucks in disapproval to find them there in the late morn, all of them having slept in. She mutters that it is not appropriate for Theon and Sansa to share a room until they are wed. But the sheer number of chaperones whom did not leave throughout the night, rather nullifies her argument.

They converge in Father’s solar for a private breakfast, where he explains the Skagosi have come to give their regards to Theon and Sansa, on their betrothal. It is considered a ploy. So they have been stationed outside, and the gate is still lowered, barring entry to the castle grounds. Winter Town is unprotected, however, and Father feels a sense of keen responsibility that they cannot spare many men to station there, to watch over the smallfolk.

Their worries appear to be unfounded however: the Skagosi do not settle in for a siege. Instead spending several days chanting and brandishing bones, dressed in little more than smallclothes and hairy cloaks, throwing curious coloured power into their many fires. Causing plumes of smoke and flame erupt in bright white, pink-purple, green or blue colours. Apparently, it is a blessing. After enduring several days of these strange rituals, the huge, grizzled Lord Stane is invited to dine with the household. His eerie blue gaze is wide and terrifying, and the children spend most of their time staring at him, and the black, spiraling ram’s horns protruding from the helm he never removes.

Eventually, Arya plucks up enough courage to ask Lord Stane if they brought a unicorn with them. His belly laugh is deep and booming, and Bran upends his mug of water on hearing it.

“Unicorns can only thrive on Skagos, girl,” A man named Eryk Magnar, proclaimed the heir to House Magnar, insists. “They’d shrivel and die on open land, so far from their rocks.”

Through brisk, his tone is teasing, and the Skagosi are less fearsome after that. For their declaration to wed, Sansa is gifted with a necklace, Theon a bone-handled dagger. Then Lord Stane clasps their hands together, pressing hers over Theon’s. He says something commanding in the Old Tongue, before peering into their eyes fiercely, one after the other.

It is only after they have left, in as much haste and mystery as they arrived, that Father reveals they came because of a prophecy written in the Old Tongue. From what they understand, it talks of a wolf girl that marries a kraken from the Sunset Sea, and how this hails the dawn of a new Age. Sansa doesn’t know much about prophecy, save for Jon’s destiny as the Prince that was Promised. As long as it will not interfere with that, she is happy for the Skagosi to regard her as some harbinger of change. A new Age is just what they all might need. She wears her curious new bone and sea-glass necklace with pride, despite the odd looks she gains toward the primitive design.

*

Mother gives birth during a summer storm; a blizzard rages outside the icy castle walls whilst Catelyn Stark howls within them. Maester Luwin worries it is taking too long for a sixth birth. Mother shouldn’t be labouring so long, with such difficulty. The peasant midwife had been installed in the servant’s quarters, but was called to Winter Town to deliver twins to the baker’s wife before the storm hit. With hail pelting the castle, she won’t be returning tonight. Sansa mops her Mother’s sopping brow, praying to the old gods, and to the gentle Mother, font of mercy, for the first time since she reawoke as a child. She is forced to promise Mother she will take good care of the babe, and her other brothers and sisters, should Catelyn not survive. Sansa watches through her tears as Mother’s struggles grow weaker, her cries quieter.

It is Lady Gwynesse that saves Mother and the babe both, charging into the birthing room and scolding them all, as she should have been sent for immediately.

“Get up at once, Catelyn,” she demands, and sets about dragging Mother to her knees. She feels about the quivering bulge of Mother’s hard belly, tutting at she maps out the shape of the child within.

“The babe’s turned sideways, is the problem,” she glowers, “Help me get her off the bed, girl.”

Sansa complies, her fingers crushed between Mother’s as they help her from her sweat-soaked covers. Mother takes a slow, trembling turn about the room, wheezing in pain with every second shuffling step. Then Gwynesse has Mother kneel again, pushing at her stomach. She seems pleased with the result, blowing a frazzled strand of hair away from her face, hands busy supporting Lady Stark.

“It’ll do,” she grunts, as Mother howls and clutches at her, her belly rippling with the contraction. Sansa is shocked when, after pushing and crying out through several more contractions, to no avail, Gwynesse presses her hand between Mother’s legs. She grasps the baby inside of her, and on the next heave, helps coax it out with her clawing fingers.

Minisa Stark enters the world squalling in blood. Sansa is the first to hold her, picking her from between Mother’s legs, and the servants take care of the after birth.

Sansa cleans the baby with a waterlogged towel, before a maid shows her how to swaddle the girl in a thick woollen blanket. Fox fur is further added, to keep out the chill. Gwynesse has seen to the ruined bedsheets whilst Sansa dealt with the babe. She is the one to reassure her that Lady Catelyn is only sleeping, though she looks pale as death, her hair fanned out on her pillows like a shroud.

Father and all her siblings have been waiting, impatient with worry, in the adjoining room for hours. When Sansa alights the doorway with the babe in her arms, a silent cheer ripples through the air, as her sleepy siblings jerk up, pretending to be fully awake.

“You have a daughter, my lord,” Sansa says, carefully transferring the precious bundle into her Father’s waiting arms. She sags with exhaustion, now that the ordeal is over; Theon hurries to her side, taking hold of her elbows to help prop her up. Whilst the others crowd around the new baby, she folds into him, weary, bones thrumming with not-yet dissipated fear.

Mother does not wake properly for three days. They have to spoon-feed her soup in her half-waking, delirious state, to give her strength. Sansa visits her every day, to wipe the sweat from her clammy chest and arms, and watch over the babe with her wet nurse. Little Minisa is hale and like to live, says Maester Luwin, though Sansa cannot help but worry.

When Mother wakes, the whole castle rejoices, and the feast in honour of the new Stark finally takes place. Lady Gywnesse is named an honourary goodmother to the child, for her help bringing her into the world.

“Well, now,” says the strict woman, cradling the sleeping babe with a suspicious shine to her eyes, “Another niece, eh?”

Wynafryd Manderly gifts them with a range of baby clothes she and her sister have stitched, including a woollen dress which is fashioned like a mermaid’s tail. Domeric Bolton offers a tome of Northern tales and lullabies, to be read or sung at night, whilst Theon provides a wooden direwolf he was whittled himself, buffed smooth, to chew on when she starts teething. Lyra Mormont gifts a fur-lined blanket with a bear and wolf playing together, and Quentyn Martell gives a toy made of silver he commissioned from White Harbour.

“It is a rattle,” he explains, “The beads inside provide a melody when shaken. Babes in Dorne use them to amuse themselves, providing comfort when all is too quiet.”

The piece is exquisite, the handle shaped like a weirwood, complete with a laughing face, the branches of which wrap around the bulbous head of the toy, where direwolves dance amongst the fluttering leaves. He seems bashful and flattered by Mother and Father’s profuse thanks.

Rickon is miserable for the first fortnight after Minisa’s birth, his position as the babe of the household usurped. Mother has no time for him, preoccupied as she is. He takes to moping, clutching onto her skirts and crying loudly when she refuses to pick him up, her arms already full with babe. Sansa is a poor replacement, though she tries, carrying him about with her as she attends her lessons, pinching his cheeks and cooing with approval as he does his best to master his letters. She will not allow herself to be distracted at all hours, however, which only leads to more screaming fits and tantrums.

In the end it is Robb that comes to their rescue. He names Rickon as Castellan to the Tower, his duties being to follow Robb everywhere and provide commentary on how well the work is going. Rickon spends his days plastered to Robb’s side after that, or sat on his hip, during his frequent sleepy spells. The workmen seem buoyed by his presence, always ready to whistle a tune for the littlest lord.

Robb’s Tower is almost complete, with only doors and furniture to be fitted, rugs and tapestries wanted to provide much needed warmth. The fireplaces inside are constantly lit, as the finishing touches are made to the streamlined tower. Robb reveals that he intends it to be Theon and Sansa’s living apartments after they are wed. So that they may have some privacy to retreat to, away from the family apartments.

Touched by this thoughtful gesture, Sansa embraces her brother, thanking him with a kiss to his brow.

“I’m handing responsibility over the interior to you two,” Robb announces then, “So that you can fit it how you’d like it. There’s room for two bedrooms, a small solar, and a nursery, plus a cellar for storage. If you keep a little bread, cold meat and wine there, you’ll not have to send for servants if you want a private meal.”

“Thank you, Robb,” Theon says, and the two men clasp arms, their affection more public now that Sansa has allowed them to claim it. Before, Robb was seen as a kind young lord, humouring his Father’s hostage. Now, they are closer to equals.

“I thought your Mother might like the other bedroom, to share with Lady Gwyn.” Robb says, “To give the place a purpose. You’ll not wed for a few years yet, and it might fall into disrepair if no one uses it.”

“Oh Robb,” Sansa cries, deeply moved at this proof of the sensitive, gracious man her brother is growing to be. Far more aware than Father, and perhaps no longer doomed to repeat his honourable mistakes.

She launches herself at her brother then, hugging him close, and dragging Theon into the fold. Robb laughs as they accost him, both of them taking a shoulder each to hook their chin over, their arms about his waist and back. Robb pats their backs, softly soothing as the two of them cuddle him close. They embrace for a long time, content to bask in the warmth of love.

“Moat Cailin’s my next project,” Robb beams, as they clutch him tightly, “Don’t tell Jon, but I’m building it up for him. Father says he’ll grant him the keep, if it’s fit and proper for a lord and household.”

Sansa begins to cry then, her happy laughter not stemming the thick tears in the least.

*

Theon and Sansa grow more adventurous with their stolen kisses, snatching moments alone whenever they can. It becomes a usual sight to see Sansa scurrying through the castle grounds, tugging Theon behind her by their clasped hands. Aside from Robb, they are the only ones with a key to the spare room of Robb’s Tower, which they will share when they are wed. It becomes their usual haunt, a private space to trade kisses and love nips.

Sansa grows used to the feel of Theon’s hair between her fingertips, and the satisfied sigh he makes when she climbs into his lap, nuzzling his cheek with her cold nose. When they are inevitably shooed out by Lady Gywn, as she comes to be called by most, they giggle, unchastened, and skitter to the dilapidated First Keep to continue their illicit kisses.

“We’ll not have use of this place long, once Robb decides it needs re-building,” Theon japes, as Sansa runs her hands through her hair in a failing attempt to make herself more presentable.

“Don’t give him any more ideas,” She warns, “The smallfolk have already started to call him Robb the Builder.”

“There’s no danger of it really; Robb likes to sneak in here with stolen ale too much.”

Sansa stores away that information for future use. Next time she needs something achieved, and Robb is being difficult, she’ll know what to hold over his head. It has become second nature to file away secrets and suppositions, almost a chore to catalogue them. It is all part of playing the game, and Sansa accepts the discomfort all in the name of something greater.

“You sneak off far less, I’ve heard it said. You used to ride out to Winter Town far more often than you do now.” Sansa comments, not yet sure what she wants to gain from her inference. Some guarantee of Theon’s fidelity, perhaps? Men are fickle, she knows, and she truly does not wish to share him with lowborn wenches or ‘thralls’ on the Isles.

Theon flushes deeply when she enquires about it, scrubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with one hand, in an effort to avoid her eyes. She waits patiently, knowing this opportunity to tell the truth will challenge him. Is he the man she once knew, still boasting over his abilities, reluctant to admit anything that might cast a pall over him? Or has he truly been altered by her interference in his young life?

“Well, I- there are places in Winter Town,” he stutters, his eyes flickering to her briefly, before sliding off again just as quick, “Where one might pay for the company of a woman. I’ve no need of that, now that I have you.”

Sansa sighs in relief, mollified that her future lord husband feels able to tell her the truth.

“I thought as much,” she reveals, gratified when his eyes widen. She still has the power to unhinge.

“Truthfully, there were only a few times when I plucked up the courage to actually go. I spent a lot of my time in the tavern,” Theon admits sheepishly.

She laughs at that, stepping close to him and catching his wrist, holding him, but in such a way that she can escape quickly, should she need to. His next answer should determine if such an action is needed.

“And after we are wed? Can you truly swear off other women, if you are bound to me?” She asks, cursing herself for the obvious vulnerability in her tone.

“What other women?” Theon asks, bewildered. “I don’t need anyone but you, Sansa. You’re all there is.”

Her heart soars, the familiar hot prickle of tears at their ducts, waiting to fall. Still, there are other doubts that niggle at her mind. In her previous life, she was married more than once; and yet the gods never blessed her marriage bed with a babe. There were times she was thankful for it, not wanting to provide an heir to a hated man, or bring a child into the Second Long Night, when existence was a misery for all. Now however, she carries the fear that she is not capable of providing one. Theon was unable to have heirs in their last life also, and it weighed on him always, preventing him from taking a wife or claiming the Iron Islands, even after his sister had died. She will not be the one to take his birthright from him again.

“I’ll allow you one concession.” She says, sliding her arms about his waist, leaning back against his own when they wrap about her.

Theon says nothing, unsure.

“If there’s no children... after ten years, I’ll allow you a thrall, in the Ironborn fashion. But she must be a girl that comes willingly, not some poor wench that you steal from her family.”

“Sansa-” He begins, aghast, but she puts her hand to his chest, over his heart.

“Ten years is a long time, my love,” She soothes, “We might be separated by war, brought down by sickness, blighted by winter. There might be babes that die in the womb or the cradle. There’ll be some who doubt your devotion to the Ironborn way, having grown here and married a ‘greenlander’. I’ll not have anyone dismiss your claim to the Seastone Chair. This way will combine two issues; showing you follow their ways, and ensuring the Greyjoy line.”

Theon looks ready to protest, but something desperate in Sansa’s eyes must hold him back.

“It won’t come to that,” he grumbles, “You’re young and healthy. We’ll have little babes with curly red hair and eyes like the sea, you’ll see.”

“I hope so,” she agrees, relieved that the conversation is over, as he kisses her again. She resolves to promptly forget about it, unless it should become necessary, so many years down the line. She never wants to think of him in the arms of another girl. Theon is her’s.

*

Quentyn Martell is not the sort to sneak off with stolen ale, or play pranks, or do anything much considered risky, but worthwhile in the name of fun. Still, he comes out of his shell a little, spending his days with Robb, Theon, Domeric when he is visiting from the Dreadfort, and Jon when he isn’t being given extra instruction on what being a master of a keep will entail.

Father has adhered to Sansa’s stipulation. Jon will be accompanying Wynafryd and Wylla back to White Harbour in less than two moons, but he has also been made aware he will be granted a masterly title and a keep of his own.

“You’ll always have a place at Winterfell,” Father assures him, showing some tact for once, “But if you’re to become a seafarer, you’ll need a title better than merely being my son.”

Jon falls over himself with his thanks, bashful and so sweetly surprised that Sansa cannot help herself from embracing him. Quentyn watches with some confusion, perhaps expecting a bastard of the North to be less loved. Well-knowing the rumours of how they were treated beyond Dorne.

“Do you miss your own brother and sister?” Sansa asks him, during a break from dancing one evening. “It must be strange to be so far from home.”

“Truthfully, I thought it would seem stranger. But the North is not as joyless and unwelcoming as I was led to believe.” He seems to think better of the words, as soon as they have left his mouth. "I have never been close to my sister. My brother is a good man, but we are very different. He is more akin to your brothers than I could hope to be."

“Variety is what keeps life intriguing. Perhaps my brothers do not need more of the same. And you speak true, the North can be a harsh and unforgiving place.” Sansa acknowledges, not in the least surprised that a boy from a clime so different would find it hard to love the place of her birth. The North can seem barren and hostile, even to its own people. Sansa herself only realised how much she truly loved it, when she thought it lost to her forever.

“But its people are wonderful,” Quentyn says quietly, demure but not for the sake of flattery, she thinks. “So many Houses and bannermen, all working together to build and feast and share joy. It is inspiring to see.”

Sansa feels her chest thrum with pride. “In the North, we know Winter is Coming. We must protect each other, for cold and death are the true enemy. Not one another, despite our disputes.”

“I think I am beginning to understand why it must be so,” Quentyn confides.

“Some things are more important than the arguments of men,” Sansa says, gratified when he hums in agreement.

*

When the Stark children say their goodbyes to their brother, it is bittersweet. Sansa sees her plans coming together in neat folds, one crease upon the other until the entire fabric is a series of ripples, each affecting the next. But it doesn’t stop her heart from lurching, knowing last time Jon and the Starks separated, it was many years, enduring much hardship, before they saw one another again. She’ll do anything in her power to prevent such a circumstance befalling their House again.

Arya sobs the loudest, angry at herself for crying, whilst Theon surprises himself and everyone else by accosting Jon with a one-armed hug, and a plea for Jon to at least attempt to enjoy himself. Robb and Jon embrace the longest, two brothers that have never been separated since Jon’s arrival in the North. For a time, they were the only two boys in Winterfell, the only children of Eddard, and the bond they share holds a wealth of secrets and affection stemming from that time.

“Be safe, little brother,” Robb says, ruffling Jon’s hair as though he were Bran or Rickon. “And mind you write often. Arya will steal a horse to come visit you, if you don’t.”

“I might do that anyway,” Arya grumbles, before being reluctantly pulled into a hug of her own. She’s still mad a Jon for leaving. She manages to contain it, knowing that Jon will be happy in White Harbour. And she will get to sail on his ship one day, because of the training he is about to receive there.

Sansa holds Minisa up for Jon to kiss, her brother excruciatingly gentle with the babe, stroking her soft cheek and kissing her tiny fist.

“I’ll speak of you often,” Sansa assures him, when Jon kisses her also. “She’ll know who you are, and your love for all of us, I promise.”

All too soon Jon is astride his palfrey, hand raised in one last salute of farewell. Then he is crashing out the yard, horse hooves clattering against the cobblestones as he canters away, following the procession and his own changed destiny.

*

She has been anticipating the return of a dear friend so long, that Sansa had forgotten the events which preceded it. Sansa is startled at the reminder when a deserter is found, wandering from his post at the Night’s Watch. Her heart lurches, realising she has run out of time. Her childhood is now over; soon King Robert will be on the road North, no doubt furious she is not available to marry his disgusting, pompous son. At least Cersei and Jaime definitely won’t be pushing Bran from Robb’s Tower; they’ll not have access to the keys.

After Minisa’s birth, Mother agreed to send a letter to Ser Brynden. They have received word that he would accept Bran as a squire, once he had completed his time as a page for Ser Domeric. Sansa no longer fears for his safety in the Dreadfort, trusting Domeric to watch out for him. And Lady Wylla too, as her marriage to Domeric has been settled on for a few months hence, in White Harbour.

Robb, Theon and Bran ride out with Father, returning not only with six tiny mewling direwolf pups, but a full-grown, wounded direwolf mother, and the Night’s Watchman, who was supposed to be a head shorter by now. Instead of beheading him for ‘wandering in madness induced by fear’, Ned Stark has brought him home to Winterfell to interrogate gently, after the man has drunk broth laced with sleeping draft, and had a decent rest.

Sansa is too distracted to care much about those details however. To busy with tiny Lady squirming in her hands and attempting to lick her cheeks. Theon remains leery of the animals, but stays tucked into Sansa’s side, watching over her in case the tiny creatures coordinate an attack.

“I missed you, girl,” she says quietly, breathing the almost-forgotten earthy scent of Lady’s fur. All the other Stark children are too busy fawning over their own little wolves to notice how quiet she has become.

“Be a while before Mini can train her pup,” Robb says, indicating the unclaimed and unnamed Ghost.

“Oh no,” Sansa whispers, stricken. That absolutely cannot be allowed to happen; Ghost was a part of Jon, and a piece of him would always be missing without his silent White Wolf. “I’ll look after him! Theon can help me.” She declares, scooping up her brother’s pup.

There are many traders that travel to White Harbour and back. Once Ghost grows big enough, Sansa will smuggle him away, pressing silver coins into the returning merchant’s hands. He will be long gone before anyone thinks to ask why they haven’t seen the white pup for days.

Jon will open the crate and yelp in surprise when a direwolf pup leaps out, a silver bow tied round its neck, bowling him over. Ghost will stand on Jon’s chest and lick his chin sloppy. And Jon won’t be able to stop grinning for days, after reading the contents of Sansa’s letter.

Another lovely part about the direwolves returning to them, is that with the survival of the mother, they have a giant, full grown protector already installed in Winterfell. Storm, as they have named the mother wolf, spends time lolloping through the godswood, after the wound on her shoulder has healed. Most of the household is terrified of her, but she is a cautious, predatory beast.

“A miracle the she-beast survived,” says Farlen, the kennel master, “A few inches more, and her throat would have been pierced.”

No, not a miracle, Sansa thinks. An omen. This life won’t tread the same path as the last one, regardless of whether the old gods have sent her back or into another world entire.

Storm stares at her with glowing golden eyes, too knowing. Then she is distracted by the excitable yips of her pups, who surround her, bouncing, tails wagging in anticipation of fresh milk. Storm has decided that Theon is also in need of mothering, and takes to following the petrified youth about the castle grounds, seating her massive head in his lap. She whines if he walks down a passage she is too large to fit down, and curls up on his feet when he sits by the fireside in his room.

“I swear I bolted my door last night,” Theon whines, “And still I wake up with a giant wolf numbing my legs.”

He might grouse endlessly, but Sansa has seen him sneaking her pieces of meat under the table. Life at Winterfell feels stable and safe, regardless of the strife she knows is on the horizon. Maybe she hasn’t moved enough pieces on the board to yet secure her brother’s legacy, to prevent her parent’s fates. But she has made a good start, and done her best with the resources allotted to her. It will have to be enough.

“So, my love,” Theon says, cuddling her close in the godswood, in that same spot she bid him to teach her to shoot an arrow, so long ago. “Did it come together as you had hoped? After you lured me here to seduce me?”

Sansa giggles, searching his lovely clear eyes, free from the shadow of despair.

“Only time will tell.” She replies, swallowing any further questions with her kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART ONE


	31. Meera

THE VIGILANT TRAVELLER

She pressed her naked flesh against his strong back, feeling him move in a gentle rhythm with every quiet breath. Firm against her lover's back, Meera smoothed her soft breasts and rubbed her cold nose, sighing wistfully as she held him close. Feeling his chest rise and fall against her hand as he breathed deeply in his peaceful slumber. Enchanted with his every movement, Meera nuzzled her nose higher, against his delicate neck and then into his soft red curls. Breathing in Robb's masculine scent. With a deep, wasteful ache, she longed to be the sort of girl who could fool herself into believing that they could remain like this, unbridled, unaffected by the outside world and its notions. Alas, Meera had always been a practical sort, and honest when she could be, not prone to deluding anyone, least of all herself. Robb was a sweet boy, and if he continued upon this path, would be a wonderful man someday. But he could not be her man.

What they had was fleeting, ephemeral, by necessity, and in truth, Meera was glad the restrictions barring them from marriage (if all Jojen predicted came to pass, and Robb became King), were not set by her. For if it had truly been her decision, if they were not buffeted by circumstances beyond their control and it was her choice alone, Meera knew she would have been too weak to resist her heart. Too optimistic to deny his suit. Meera would have given herself to Robb completely. Despite knowing she could never be happy cooped up, and would grow restless to distraction and resentful, as the lady of a great keep. And she did not want to nurse bitter resentment at her breast, against her love.

She was meant for moss and bog, crannog, reeds, and pretty saxifrage, not Winterfell's shadowy stone halls. Meera belonged in the Neck, with her people. Until the time came for her to accompany her brother, and venture into the far North.


	32. Ramsay

THE SLY TRAVELLER

The wind was biting his cheeks with savage teeth. He pictured long spindly fingers of frost slicing beneath the thin layers of his skin, from where the back of his neck was unprotected. Great sheets of his flesh would peel off in layers as thin as parchment.

The landscape ahead was shrouded in fog, though he could barely perceive it. The dark was absolute, thick with the promise of horrors untold. A shifting black mass as far as the eye could see, like the swirl of ink in a shaken pot.

“Thought I might find you here,” whispered the familiar voice of his brother.

Had it been anyone else that had managed to sneak up on him unannounced, he would have tensed, and readied himself for a tussle. Bolton men were savages, and treated a bastard little better than dirt. Ramsay gave as good as he received. For that, was constantly berated by his lord father, due to scrapping in the dirt like a godless wildling. But if he rolled over and took their insults without defending himself, as a craven would, he knew the punishment would only be worse.

Roose Bolton was ever a contrary man. He rarely explained what he expected, in favour of vicious retribution for any perceived slight or inadequacy when an action displeased him. In this way, Ramsay had learnt never to anticipate instruction. His only path to comfort was to watch what Domeric did, and try to do the same. Naturally, this was infinitely more difficult to accomplish when his brother was sent to foster at the Vale. It was better to be out of the castle.

Ramsay spent the subsequent years in the woods and hills surrounding the Dreadfort, with his companions, terrorising the local wildlife and smallfolk. Nothing held his attention long however, and he set out on several long excursions toward the South with a vague idea of surprising Dom. He never got further than the Barrowlands before Lady Dustin persuaded him to take her hospitality. She had grown fond of him after all the time he had spent there with Dom. She was the closest kin to a mother figure he had ever had. Though they didn’t share blood, she was always decent to him. Less dismissive of a baseborn than most, perhaps because she would have been happy to have one herself with Brandon Stark.

Lady Dustin would set out well-fashioned, warm clothes in his guest chamber. They would share the differing contents of Dom’s letters over a bellyful of wine. And after several days solid reprieve from his overbearing father, she always sent him home to the Dreadfort with good food in his pack. If she was able to prevent herself from denouncing Myranda as a strumpet, for travelling as a lone woman among a band of brutish men, she would be the Southron Mother goddess given form.

Ramsay didn’t wander the battlements of Barrowton, restless in the night, as he did along the turrets of the Dreadfort. He wasn’t as comfortable with Lady Dustin’s holdfast as he was with the dim passageways and hidden nooks within his own home. He and Dom had spent their boyhood skittering through the dusty halls, clambering through disguised doors and concealing themselves within the dark-stained wooden furniture, during elaborate hiding games. They shared everything, and Ramsay could never hope to secret himself away from Dom.

He allowed himself to be gathered into his brother’s embrace now, warm breath thawing his frozen cheek as Dom informed him how cold he was, as if Ramsay was unaware.

“Come along,” Domeric said, in that motherly voice of concern he used, whenever he was troubled.

He lead the way back to his own chambers, the two of them stripping off quickly to their underclothes. Without talking, they burrowed beneath the furs on Dom’s large poster bed. Laying as though they were Ramsay’s beloved bitches, heaped together in the kennels for warmth. Dom curled about his back, burrowing his nose into Ramsay’s hair, breathing steady, deep and slow.

Ramsay was not fooled. He knew Dom was only biding his time. Waiting for the moment when Ramsay was relaxed enough, that leaving to return to his own icy chambers downstairs, would be too grim of a prospect.

Sure enough, Dom whispered; “Talk to me,” and was not deterred by Ramsay’s heavy sigh.

“I know something ails you,” Dom continued, “You know I only mean well.”

Ramsay stuffed his head further into his pillow, hoping to block out the inevitable conversation. Anything that made him feel weak made him furious. He immediately wanted to kill it, to destroy the detestable feeling. Or at least lash out and hurt something enough that the ringing in his ears would cease. But he couldn’t harm Dom, and so he was confined to tense muscles and trying to muffle his brother’s voice.

Dom stroked his hair, as though he were still a babe, supremely unmoved by Ramsay’s petulant display. Ramsay knew it was futile; his brother was as persistent as a lapping river. Gradually carving away at the rock, until it had cleaved a path across the land, to the outcome it sought. Patient and unyielding, that was Dom entire.

Eventually, he mumbled his reply, and hated himself for the words before the first sentence was even uttered.

“Why do you have to marry her?” Ramsay whined, only just managing to suppress the sudden urge to bite off his own tongue. “You barely know the wench. And her kin are all fat dollops of lard. She’ll grow too big to sit a horse and you’ll have to fashion her a steel chair, lest she snaps a wooden one.”

Dom clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “That is unkind. Wylla doesn’t over-eat, and we all grow plump in summertime, when supplies are plenty.”

“You don’t know her! She’s a scheming Southron whore.” Ramsay snarled, rolling over to face his brother. In the gloom, Dom’s stern countenance was shrouded by the shadows, but Ramsay felt the force of his displeasure like cuff to the ear from a gauntleted hand.

“I know change displeases you. But we cannot remain boys forever.” Dom said decisively, “I need an heir, and his mother may as well be from the wealthiest House in the North. And she is a Northern lady, despite her Andal blood and Faith in the Seven.”

“I don’t like her,” Ramsay insisted, as though that might make a difference.

Dom took his face between both his hands, and pressed a kiss against his forehead, chapped lips squashed firmly to skin and hair.

“You think she will come between us. That I will love any children she bares me above you, and no longer set aside time for us to spend together.” Dom stated quietly.

Ramsay bit down on his lower lip hard enough to taste the iron in his blood, rather than admit it was true. Dom didn’t need to hear confirmation to understand it, however.

“There is no one who could ever know all that we have suffered and shared and learnt.” Dom whispered, still huddled close, “You are right that I do not know her well, but I will come to. And she will know her place in this household, and it is not between us. You are a part of me. There is nothing and no one that could make me love you any less.”

Ramsay pressed his face into Domeric’s chest rather than reply. His fingers were claws as they dug into the vulnerable ribs of his brother, dragging the two of them deep into the hollow dark, where they belonged.


	33. Sansa XVI

THE LONE TRAVELLER

The tiny direwolf pups had been an omen Sansa hadn’t been aware she was waiting for. But when she held Lady in her arms again for the first time, her small furry body warm and wriggling, it was as if a deep well of despair had opened in her stomach. Every day that followed, she expected her lord father to announce that King Robert was bringing his court to Winterfell. Trudging toward her home, with all the subtlety and patience of a battering ram. Sansa had vague recollections of this time in her first life, and it soon became evident that too much time had gone by.

The anxious pit in her tummy was lodged firm. Like a fruit nut swallowed by mistake, laying heavy in her stomach. Each day that passed with no word, Sansa grew more restless. Wondering how far the repercussions of her actions had spread. She lay awake at night, staring at the canopy of her featherbed and trying to remember as many facts about the life she had lived before as possible. It was not an easy undertaking. So much had happened, that the details were lost under the tide of numb misery Sansa had cloaked about herself as a kind of protection. 

Now, Sansa recited what she could recall underneath her breath at night, in an effort to solidify her schemes. She had seemingly prevented two unwanted outcomes already. With Bran fostered at the Dreadfort, he was unable to stumble across the Queen’s secrets. Jon learning to be a seafarer, not bound to remain neutral. Thus, two of Sansa’s brothers were set to embark on an entirely different journey toward maturity. Sansa could only hope these new paths would bring them greater joy and less troubles. 

There was a lingering chill at the back of her neck, whenever she thought too hard on Bran’s previous fate. She could not shake the idea that his mentor, the mysterious Three-Eyed Raven, would still manage to exert some sway over her brother in his dreams as he had before. Hopefully Bran’s yearning to be a knight would be strong enough to overpower any other urges. It did not do to indulge whispers during the hour of the wolf.

Sansa’s own rest was hard to come by. Her worries incessantly tugging her from shallow sleep, like an itch that could not be satiated. When she woke gasping for breath or with tears threatening to burn her cheeks, she had company to console her at least. Two fuzzy companions that yipped in concern and burrowed into her. Keeping her warm and safe. For snuggled onto her bed each night were Lady and Ghost. Her own direwolf was accompanied by Jon’s, because he was too small to be parted from his mother and siblings yet. 

Ghost was the only wolf she had spent any time full as a full-grown beast. She was so familiar with the much larger, scruffier version. It was so sweetly strange to see him young again. Little Ghost had been the first of the wolf pups to open his blood-red eyes. Sansa had swooped in to take charge of him, to prevent Ghost from being promised to her new baby sister. Jon and his silent wolf belonged together, and Sansa would see it so.

Since the other circumstances of her life were not flowing in a course she recognised, Sansa had been keeping a watch on Maester Luwin’s interactions with her lord father. Luwin would be the one to inform Lord Stark of any important situations in the South. But neither men seemed alarmed or furtive during in their public discussions. Evidently no ravens had come from the Capital. Sansa had bitten her tongue many a morn, holding back stupid questions she knew would only arouse suspicion. 

Sansa had no reason to be publicly concerned about the health of Jon Arryn. In truth, she couldn’t help but wonder why he had been spared thus far. Alas, too many ears remained at Winterfell for her to be caught asking strange questions. The sennights flew by on a raven’s wings, and soon Ghost was big enough to send to Jon. Sansa found a merchant agree to transport him on his cart. She extracted a promise that the man would box Ghost in a crate, before presenting him to Jon. It would sweeten the surprise that she could not enjoy in person. Still, it was a moment of glee for Sansa, to kiss the pup on his fuzzy nose before lifting him onto the cart. But the pleasurable feeling was ephemeral, swiftly swallowed by the dreaded anticipation.

Jon Arryn should surely be dead by now. Then Robert would come North to claim her Father to lead him to his death. Sansa had not devised an argument against Ned’s appointment as Hand. Not one she believed strong enough to convince her dutiful Father to remain in Winterfell. Sansa could only hope she might convince him to take more men South with him this time. Ned Stark did not realise how corrupt the Capital was, how much Lannister influence had spread there.

As her parents had the new baby, there would be no talk of Mother accompanying him this time. Travel would be too risky for a child so small, not to mention the myriad of diseases and ailments that were rife in cities such as King’s Landing. Bran was at the Dreadfort, and Sansa herself was engaged to an Ironborn who lived in the North. Without Mother and Sansa herself, it was unlikely Father would take Arya. If she had to relinquish Father to King Robert, at least Sansa would not lose anyone else alongside him. 

But in the dreary days rolled by, still no ravens came. Something had changed drastically, but she could not fathom what. Baelish would not have recanted, so Sansa could only assume he had another plan to execute which had not come to fruition yet. Unfortunately, Sansa had no allies in the South to enquire after the state of the Southron court.

Theon could sense she was anxious, she knew. He had done his best to cheer her with flowers, lemoncakes and sweet words. Sansa hated to disappoint him. Yet she could not quite manage to shield the worry in her eyes. Her smile was firmly in place, but it was fixed and brittle, and she knew it did not convince her future husband. Theon seemed to be the only one who could truly see through it, however. When he whispered words of reassurance into her fiery red hair, she would only tuck herself into his chest and savour his embrace. Sansa offered no explanation for her melancholy demeanour, and was gratified that Theon did not demand one.

She had also caught Lady Gwyn sending concerned looks her way a time or two. So far, the forthright woman had refrained from asking her any probing questions. Sansa suspected it would not be long, however. Lady Gwyn was not one to shirk from an uncomfortable subject. Sansa had devised a lie to throw her from the true scent. Sansa only hoped she could convincingly play the blushing maiden. She planned to say she was anxious about wedded life, and having not received her moonblood yet. 

It was the only smokescreen Sansa could think of, to cover the unexplainable source of her distress. But it was essential she was believed. Sansa could not have Gwyn coming to incorrect conclusions. Theon’s aunt might believe Sansa was reluctant to marry her nephew, which was not the case at all. One of Sansa’s most vital goals had been to tie Theon to House Stark, ensuring his loyalty during the wars to come. She resolved to do better to mark her anxiety, lest anyone else notice and draw erroneous assumptions.

*

Sansa sighed heavily, slowly running a hand through the glossy grey furs on Jon’s bed. Weaving the thick fibres through her pale, elegant fingers. They had received a letter from Jon only yesterday. He had set off on his first journey across the Narrow Sea, a short excursion to Braavos. She missed him terribly. His sweet smiles, and quiet, sensible manner. Sansa was not seen Jon since Wylla Manderly’s wedding to Domeric Bolton, held at the pretty Sept in New Harbour. Sansa wondered how Roose Bolton felt about his son and heir marrying into a House which followed the Faith. She knew the Bolton lord had insisted a second ceremony be held in the Dreadfort’s godswood, so he did not seem to hold the vows valid, unless they were made before the heart tree. Most of the Starks attended both, as well as the Martells, who were still their guests, and the Ironborn. Northmen loved an excuse to feast as much as any other, and no doubt the Bolton bannermen enjoyed the rare excuse for some cheer in their dreary keep. The frugal Lord Bolton did not often host celebrations.

The Ironborn were only invited to intend, because Lady Alannys could not bear to be parted from Theon. Lord Balon’s men were chiefly tasked with her protection, so they accompanied her wherever she went. When she had decided to remain in the North, Ned Stark had been sent a very strongly worded letter from Balon Greyjoy. He had outlined in graphic detail what would happen to House Stark, the North, and Ned personally, should any harm come to his wife. Balon only seemed to remember that Theon existed, now that Alannys was a permanent fixture in Winterfell. She had been installed in Robb’s Tower indefinitely. Balon had made several mentions of Theon in his letter also. Including his wish that Theon visit the sea at least once a year, to be blessed by a drowned man and reminded of his roots.

“You can wager with confidence that Uncle Aeron made him write that,” Theon snorted.

Theon had been called to Lord Stark’s solar, to be informed of the relevant parts of the letter. He had returned with a familiar fake smile on his face, a wry twist that made Sansa’s heart ache. Theon’s shoulders were hunched and vulnerable. Sansa squeezed his hand in reassurance, stepping up onto the tip of her toes to press a firm kiss against his cheek. Theon had undertaken another growth spurt lately, to her annoyance. Sansa knew she would catch him up soon, but for now the extra inches were a hindrance to her kisses.

Father did not mention Balon’s letter to any of the children, but because of Theon, Robb and Sansa knew it existed. Robb had grown bolder without Jon around to temper him, and had stolen the missive to slake his curiosity. He shared it with Theon and Sansa in its entirety, after Sansa had admonished him for risking Father’s wrath. Robb merely shrugged off her concerns. After reading the letter, they learned that Yara Greyjoy was set to marry at the close of the year. Balon was insisting that both Alannys and Theon attend the wedding. Sansa wondered if circumstances would allow them to go, or if tensions would be too high by then.

“No doubt to judge for himself if I am worthy to call son,” Theon announced glumly at the news. “Or if he should insist that Yara’s children be named Greyjoy, and rule Pyke in my stead.”

Theon was less confident in his Ironborn roots, now that the contrast between himself and the men from his Father’s household was evident. The other Ironborn were far more crass and harsh than Theon. At first, they had been dismissive of his prowess on horseback, and dubious of his preference for the bow. The men did not know what to make of him, but Aunt Gwyn had been charmed by her nephew and pleased with the way Theon treated his mother. His gentle way with Alannys was clearly beneficial, as she was far more serene, and less prone to wailing fits, than when she first arrived in the North. Because of his behaviour, Gwyn had warmed to Theon greatly. She ordered the Ironborn men to treat their future lord with respect, often reminding the men of Theon’s birthright. Though most were wary at first, Dagmer Cleftjaw had no worries, and had quickly taken Theon beneath his wing. 

Dagmer was the master at arms for House Greyjoy, and had been teaching Theon in arms, battle strategy and sea warfare. Now the younger man had become proficient with a battle axe, under Dagmer’s tutelage. The other Ironborn had warmed somewhat, when they saw how willing Theon was to engage with their culture. The pressure of being in Winterfell was buffing at their rougher edges. They were expected to maintain some decorum, lest they be thrown from the hall or refused ale, as Father had commanded more than once. Eventually, the Ironborn men learnt to be less rowdy. 

Theon had tried to copy their more fierce demeanor at first, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. Not least because Rickon had burst into tears, after Theon had growled at him for being underfoot. Sansa had sent him a glare that could have frozen his heart, were she a shadowbinder from Asshai. Contrite, Theon had then joined her in comforting the youngest male Stark. Theon ended the afternoon carrying Rickon about on his shoulders. After that, the Theon she had come to love made a return, and the Ironborn had gradually grown used to him. Some had even copied his ‘greenlander’ ways. Sansa had witnessed a man named Sigurd Stonehouse present Lyra Mormont with a fistful of violets, after complimenting her skill in the sparring yard. Despite the historic hatred between their people, Lyra had accepted the flowers with grace and a deep blush. Later, she had asked for Sansa’s help in sewing their likeness onto a handkerchief.

Sigurd was not the only Ironborn to settle in after a period of awkwardness. The Goodbrother triplets were a few years older than Theon. They therefore seemed to consider themselves too old to play and jape with the Starks. At first the young men kept their distance, aside from when sparring in the yard. In an effort to win them over, Theon and Robb decided to lure them to the First Keep with illicit ale. Several card games later, they were all firm friends.

The triplets were fiendish about card games. They had found rather unexpected kindred in Nymeria Sand, who taught everyone to play a Dornish game. It was a variant of something popular across the Narrow Sea. The game involved the sums of cards, and betting on the likelihood of reaching a certain number with the cards dealt in the next round. Because of this, Sansa could not keep up with it. Her skills with sums had not improved overmuch, despite Robb’s continuing lessons. Her brother had learnt to be more patient and thorough with his clarifications, but Sansa still considered Robb a rather lacklustre teacher. She cherished the time they spent together though, despite her frustrating lack of progress. Sansa would never take her siblings for granted again.

Sansa was gratified by the integration of households taking place in Winterfell. It made her grin to see Nymeria cheerfully rake in her card winnings, or hear Theon gleefully whoop when he won a round. Sansa did not need to partake in the games herself to reap the rewards. Winterfell’s occupants gradually grew more comfortable with one another, despite their different customs, religions and practices. Oberyn Martell seemed mildly concerned that his daughter was oft surrounded by Ironborn men, but if he commented on it, it was not in Sansa’s hearing.

Sansa saw little of the famed Red Viper, who did not often cross her path. Oberyn Martell was a smooth man, overconfident and rather brazen. His bold Dornish colours stood out among the dark boiled leather worn by most men in the North. Whenever he was seated near Mother at the high table she seemed uncomfortable. Catelyn Stark could not abide vulgarity, and blushed at the strange opinions Oberyn had, or at least his fortright manner. The men of the household were too in awe of his skills with the spear to care about his odd words. 

Oberyn did not often enter the training yard, but when he did, every man there vied for a chance to take him on. So far, he had consented to spar with Robb, a few Ironborn and Jory Cassel. Of these, only Dagmer Clefjaw provided a challenge. Though their choice of weaponry was wildly different, they were both extremely skilled and fast. Their fight lasted until a deluge of rain put paid to it, leaving no clear victor. Oberyn had offered his hand to Theon’s distant relative, and the two men had held a mutual respect ever since.

Generally, Oberyn spent a lot of time in Winter Town, or speaking with the older servants of Winterfell. It seemed evident to Sansa that he must be asking after Ned’s conduct at the close of Robert’s Rebellion. Her letter to Dorne was not difficult to decipher, and she suspected he was gathering information on Jon’s mysterious origins. There were few possible candidates for baring Jon. One of whom was Ashara Dayne, a woman Oberyn had personally known, so he would had made quick work of that rumour. If he found the answers he sought, Sansa also did not discover. She was not so foolish as to dog his steps and ask after his line of questioning. It was enough to know that Oberyn was asking questions at all. He would come to the correct conclusions in time.

Despite the thawing of their guests, Sansa still wished Jon were with her in this moment. She flopped backward on her brother’s cold bed, and curled up on her side until the furs began to warm from her heat. Jon had been her solid, dependable rock in her first life. After all the madness of the war had finally stopped dragging Sansa all about the Seven Kingdoms, the two of them had reinstalled themselves in Winterfell. For a time, they had ruled the North together.

Sansa and Arya had never been close. After returning from Essos, the Arya that Sansa remembered was only present intermittently. Her sister had suffered through her own struggles, and had oft retreated behind an empty visage, rather than deal with it. She spent hour after hour silently practicing her deadly swordplay against imaginary foes, sparring with any foolish enough to ask. They had found a way to work together, but had never managed to bridge the gap between them.

Dealing with Bran had been worse. Bran spent all his time in the godswood, communing with the gods. He stayed there so long Sansa feared he would freeze to death in the snow. The only thing more frightening than the milk-white of Bran’s rolled-back eyes, was when they would return to the brown that she recalled being soft and unguarded. Bran would stare at her blankly, not a trace of warmth to be found in his face. 

He spoke of terrible, horrific things without a trace of sympathy in his voice, as though he could no longer understand the weight of his words. It was as though Sansa were talking to a tree or animal, given voice but no emotion. Sansa had cared for him as best she could, but how could she love that unfeeling thing as a brother?

Jon had been different. Jon was still Jon, in a way that Bran and Arya were not. Of all the remaining Starks, Sansa included, Jon was the only one that grew up to be a man truly reflecting his youthful self. He had only grown more honourable during his time at the Wall. Becoming the Lord Commander had given him the confidence to command men. Jon had reminded Sansa so much of her lord father. And she had loved him.

It had been difficult to return to a time when Jon did not trust her. His childhood self did not come to her with his troubles, to unburden some of the weight or seek her advice. She could not comfort him when he grew sullen. Young Jon did not look at Sansa with the affection he showed to Arya and the boys. She had not been able to confide all her plans to him. They had come to rely on one another when ruled the North together, no secrets between them. As a child, Jon was almost afraid of her, always leery of offending her ladylike sensibilities. 

Through her efforts to charm and clothe him, they were closer now. But still only a shade of what they had been. After the brutality of war had claimed their family, they were the first Starks reunited. They believed themselves to be the only two of House Stark still living. It had bonded Jon and Sansa in a way that could never be replicated in this life. Not least because their family would have to suffer gain losses again for the same tether to form, and Sansa would not allow that to happen.

But still, Sansa missed that deeper bond with Jon. She longed to speak with her brother, to hold his warm hand in her own. To bask before the fire with the man that knew all Sansa had suffered, yet saw only strength in her. Sitting in his empty room and imagining the counsel her Jon might give, was the closest Sansa could come to seeing him again. If she closed her eyes, she could picture herself in the Winterfell she ruled over as Lady Stark. She could pretend Jon would come through the door to ask her opinion over goblets of wine.

But alas, Sansa was now alone with her melancholy and fears. She wallowed for what might have been an hour, before she was rudely interrupted by Robb. She sat up in alarm when her agitated brother slammed open Jon’s door. He abruptly stopped short on finding her there, irritation flashing across his features.

“Seven Hells,” Robb hissed, kicking the door closed in obvious frustration. “I forgot Jon wasn’t here.”

There was something sheepish about Robb’s countenance. Sansa suspected it was due to having a moment of unbridled emotion witnessed by his sister. Men could be strangely bashful about such things. He would much rather have been emotional in the presence of his brother, who was his own age. Before Robb could regain his countenance and take his leave, Sansa sats up straighter. She patted the space beside her on Jon’s bed. Robb let out a heavy sigh, but consented to take up her silent invitation to her relief. She wanted nothing more than to be close with her siblings.

“I miss him too,” Sansa offered her big brother a smile, heartened to see it returned. “Jon is very easy to talk to.”

“Aye,” Robb agreed, flopping down beside her. “And always mindful of his duty, our Jon.”

Sansa bit at her lower lip, not wanting to think on the dangers Jon’s new duties might be placing him in this very moment. There were hazards she was not familiar with in Essos; slavers and pirates and eccentric followers of the Red God. She drew comfort from the knowledge that Jon had Ghost with him, young as the pup was. They had grown quickly and would soon be as big as the hounds in the kennel. And of course, the Manderly men would know the importance of protecting their liege lord’s son. Sansa hoped it would be enough to see Jon safely back to Westeros.

“You seem troubled,” Sansa stated carefully, “Is something amiss?”

Robb ran his eyes across her for several long moments, clearly assessing what he could safely impart. Sansa wondered if he would have taken so long for him to make up his mind, if she were a boy. Then she chided herself for being uncharitable. Robb sparred with her now, and had even showed her blocking techniques against knives, which their parents had forbidden. 

Sansa was not allowed to spar with hand-held weapons, only allowed to practice with her bow and learn basic hand-to-hand. The methods Ser Rodrick taught her were intended to show her to escape unwanted holds, more than anything else. But Robb showed her how to throw a punch and how to sweep a man’s legs out from under him. That had quickly become one of her favourite moves. She knew Robb trusted and respected her. But Robb was still the eldest of many siblings, and so was naturally protective. He had a tendency hold all his burdens upon himself, and it was a dangerous precedent to set. Sansa resolved to break him of the habit. She knew that a brooding King who was not frank with his advisors, would grow paranoid and churlish.

“Father is leaving,” Robb eventually revealed. “Within the fortnight, and he won’t let me go with him. I have to be the Stark in Winterfell while he is gone. I had planned to return to Moat Cailin, and now that trip will be delayed, for months. I had thought that Father would let me accompany him, at least, in recompense.”

Sansa knew that Robb’s rebuilding of Moat Cailin was being overseen by Mors Umber. It seemed a strange choice to Sansa, and almost everyone else. But according to Robb, the man had a ‘good eye’, and was very good at understanding architect’s notes, and ordering builders about. Still, Robb had spent a long time discussing the project and overseeing it for several moons as it commenced. It was still his, and Robb would be very vexed if Mors Umber saw it through to the end, without more of his input. Sansa knew how earnestly Robb wanted the place fashioned well for Jon. But she also suspected that the keep’s proximity to Greywater Watch was a significant factor, in why Robb had been so eager to return there.

There had been lots of whispers about Robb’s affection for Lord Reed’s only daughter, starting during her time at Winterfell. They had spoken at length, and danced together. It was all the servants spoke of. Mother had seemed alarmed, Father baffled but pleased. None had been surprised that Robb had visited Greywater Watch during his stay in the Neck.

Robb had been low in spirits when his guard had come home to Winterfell, already wistful to return. But Robb had refused to speak of his feelings for Meera, the one time Sansa had asked. She knew not to press the issue. Especially after several green boys had found themselves thoroughly trounced in the training yard, due to their disparaging comments about ‘frog-eaters’ the night before. Most of the North openly scorned the crannogmen. Not many of the mutterings about Robb and Meera among the smallfolk had been particularly kind. Only the truly staunch Northerners, those like Old Nan, would rather their future liege lord marry any manner of Northwoman, providing she was strong enough to bear sons and followed the old ways. But most Northmen did not want their future Lord Paramount to marry a bog-dweller. Especially when that would mean Robb was passing over their more prestigious, wealthy, well-bred daughters.

Sansa did not know how to comfort Robb over this issue. Knowing that Robb did not wish to speak, even indirectly, of Meera. So instead, she focused on the true revelation in Robb’s speech.

“Father is leaving?” she repeated, troubled because this did not happen in her previous life. “Where is he going?”

She fully expected Robb to say South, to King’s Landing. That somehow Sansa's meddling, which had resulted in Jon Arryn sending his lady wife and son to Riverrun, had altered his fate. Mayhaps Robert Baratheon would never travel North, instead imperiously demanding Ned Stark come to court to attend upon him. But Robb’s actual reply stoppered her thoughts enough to leave Sansa speechless.

“The Wall.” Robb said, clipped and without inflection, “Ever since he sent that deserter back to his post, Father and Lord Commander Mormont have been discussing it. Something is going on North of the Wall, some trouble the Watch can’t handle alone.”

Sansa felt her heart beginning to thump erratically, her palms growing sweaty with fear. She knew what the reply to her next enquiry will be, but that did not stop her from making it regardless. She needed to hear it voiced by another, to truly understand the peril that she has wrought.

“What does that mean? What is Father going to do, that the Night’s Watch cannot do alone?”

Robb gazed at her steadily, something like pride mingled with the fear she saw there. 

“Bring castle-trained men to assist them, for a time. Father is going to join Uncle Benjen on his next ranging, North of the Wall.”

After taking her leave of Robb, Sansa spent the next several hours on her knees in the godswood. Begging the old gods to watch over her father and uncle. She knew Uncle Benjen had disappeared Beyond the Wall, in a ranging. Had it been around this time, or later? Sansa only had scant details about that time. Her meddling here in this life might mean that she would lose her lord father in the same instance, or it might mean that Benjen is saved. Sansa prayed that the latter was true. She knelt so long in the dirt that Mother came to find her, to remind her she must change for dinner.

“Sansa, sweetling,” Mother cried, aghast at the tear tracks frozen on Sansa’s cheeks, “Whatever is the matter?”

Sansa declined to answer, burrowing her face into Mother’s floral smelling clothes as she was gathered close. She wanted to threaten the gods. Sansa was brave enough to swear to burn down their weirwoods and turn the North to the Seven, if they failed to watch over the Starks. But she knew such lies would be futile. No god had ever adhered to her bidding before. She was at their mercy, as much as she has always been, for good or ill. And Father, who was a man of logic and reason, would not listen to her, if Sansa tried to warn about the horrors that awaited him Beyond the Wall.


	34. Jon

THE HALLOWED TRAVELLER

Braavos was beautiful. Jon was in awe of just how beautiful; the small grey stone buildings crammed in a charming manner on every island, no matter how small, leaning against one another in a tumble down fashion. He had gaped in awe as they sailed beneath the legendary Titan, the gigantic behemoth not done justice by any description or picture in Maester Luwin’s books. The archipelago was surrounded by purple Braavosi ships, with a multitude of other colours bobbing in the harbour representing galleys, longships and other vessels from all over the known world.

The hundred islands were connected by thin stone bridges, spanning the many canals, which were heavy with barge traffic. Some of the barges were excessively elaborate, their wooden rooms covered by reams of expensive satin and lace. The market skiffs were not as well crafted, but their cotton awnings were still dyed in merry shades of green, yellow, orange and red. The Braavosi were cheerful, friendly people, prone to laughter and bursting into song.

“Courtesans,” whistled Vaaro, as two intricately painted barges passed close by them. He was a fellow sailor with which Jon had become rather friendly.

“Some the most expensive, well-bred whores in the known world.” Vaaro continued, grinning at Jon’s look of surprise. “Not like pox-ridden wenches found in any tavern in Westeros. These are women of class and style. They say the Nightingale is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Vaaro discreetly motioned to a man with a thin rapier threaded through his belt, who was dressed flamboyantly in red and orange. A stark contrast to the vast majority of Braavosi, clad in charcoal grey, or deep, dark shades of blue, black and purple. Though this man's shirt collar was still loose and low-slung, showing off his bristly chest; a typical design here, Jon noted unenthusiastically.

Jon’s own dark clothes blended well in Braavos, but he was uncomfortable with the amount of flesh on display from the general populace. He flushed and shuddered to imagine coming into contact with a courtesan, judging by the exposed middles of some highborn women, where sections of their dresses were lacking material.

“Braavos fight to defend the honour of their most admired courtesan.” Vaaro explained, as the man in orange passed down the street, slowly perusing the market.

“The honour of a whore?” Jon repeated, puzzled at the conflicting sentiments.

“Ah, but I already said, there are not like your common wench, boy. They are women of substance, trained in conversation, as well as the sensual arts. Only the wealthiest men can afford to be entertained by them.”

Jon wondered briefly what it would be like to be the bastard of a courtesan, before Vaaro regained his attention.

“Be careful to always remove your sword before the sun falls, in Braavos.” said the experienced sailor, “Braavos will only challenge man at night. Then they will duel at the Moon Pool, and the water dancers would run ragged around a green boy like you. They are probably the quickest, wiliest killers in Essos.”

Vaaro was an experienced sailor, roughly fifteen years Jon’s senior, a Summer Islander with a heavy brow and a large, amiable smile, and entirely bald. He had hoops in both his ears, and was missing a tooth toward the front of his mouth. He dressed somewhat like a Braavo himself, in bright, contrasting colours, including a bright purple sash he wore about his waist, and a green feather which hung from a gold chain from his left ear. He clapped Jon on the shoulder when they first met, and immediately challenged him to a fight. Though he was intimidated by the older man’s height and board build, honour would not let him decline, and he had soon found himself thoroughly trounced.

Jon had only been trained in the manner of a Westerosi knight; but Vaaro carried a Dothraki arakh, when he was not using his native goldheart bow. Jon had spent most of the bout throwing himself away from lightning quick jabs and blows, trying to avoid Vaaros’ spinning steel. Jon was utterly exhausted and decorated with a new scar on his cheek, when the rather one-sided fight was done. Panting heavily and sweating in his leathers, Jon had allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and clapped heartily on the back.

“Good!” roared Vaaro, “we will make a sailor of you, Jon Snow.”

Vaaro was impressed by Ghost, who garnered appreciative, yet wary looks from everyone. Vaaro had been the first to dare approach Jon’s rapidly growing wolf, with a tasty hunk of chicken in his outstreched hand. Ghost was easily bribed. They had been firm friends ever since, though Ghost stuck close to Jon once they had alighted on shore.

The harbour master had tried to prevent Ghost from wandering around the Free City, without being collared and tethered by a leash. Jon hadn’t known what to say in response. Ghost was his friend and companion; he had never thought of him like a common hound in need of discipline. Ghost had been a welcome piece of home, a wonderful present from his sister. They had bonded immediately, Ghost following him about everywhere and curling up beside him wherever they slept; his warm chambers in New Castle, or the gently rocking hull of the Lady Myriame, the ship he had been assigned to.

The Captain of said ship, the younger brother of the lord of Ramsgate Castle, was not impressed by the Braavosi’s terms. Though he had barely exchanged a word with Jon, since welcoming him aboard and setting down the rules he was expected to adhere to, he had bristled at the Harbour Master’s tone.

“I thought I had docked in Braavos, the free city where men are truly free. Or are we in Volantis where there are five slaves collared and leashed, to every free man?” He barked rhetorically at the spluttering harbour master.

“That is not a man, it is a savage beast!” the fussy little man with wiggling mustaches argued, pointing an accusatory finger at Ghost, who promptly belied his words by giving a wide yawn, and lying down with his head on his paws.

“Truly a terrifying sight,” sneered Captain Skrith Woolfield, whilst the crew and onlookers sniggered. “Though you are right a direwolf is no man. They are creatures of magic, great intelligence and cunning. No doubt Braavos is too unrefined for the presence of such a stunning creature. So perhaps I will take my custom elsewhere.”

Flusted, the harbour master began to offer his apologies and excuses, and Ghost was allowed to roam free from shackles, but not without Jon. Which was a fair bargain, as intimidated locals may try to capture or harm him, thinking him a common beast.

Later, when Jon offered Captain Woolfield his thanks, for he had no collar for Ghost, nor did he know how his wolf would react to such treatment, the man waved him away.

“No man will speak to the son of Lord Eddard in such a way, not in my hearing.” he said firmly, “You know I do not commonly take live cargo, to avoid the mess and hassle. But your Ghost is rather a refined beast. I have been proud to host the living sigil of my liege lord.”

Thus Jon and Ghost were free to roam the city together, enticed by the different smells and sounds. Ghost did get up to mischief by sticking his snout into bushels of exotic fruits or beneath market tables, until Jon succeeded in pulling him away.

After the first day, the folk had grown used to the sight of a young man walking with a regal, pure white wolf, and word had spread about the supposed magical properties of such a beast. Merchants and highborn representatives began offering Jon obscene amounts of money to purchase Ghost. Jon was not tempted, and his answer was always a short and flat ‘no’. When one merchant was particularly persistent and approached Ghost incautiously, he almost lost a hand for his trouble, when Ghost closed his teeth around his wrist. The man bled profusely, while Jon wrestled Ghost away. There were far fewer offers after that, though some still tried their luck.

Jon put them out his mind, too intrigued by the various temples, dedicated to exotic gods from all over the world. He knew all religions were welcome in Braavos. But he was still surprised to see so many large, intimidating red temples for a mysterious god from the far east, whose preachers lined many of the streets and spoke of the cleansing power of fire.

The largest and most extravagant temples belonged to the Moonsinger faith, of which Jon knew little. But he was surprised to notice drowned men, like Theon’s uncle Aeron Greyjoy, in the long robes of their order. Pouring salt water liberally over the heads of believers in the Drowned God. There was a statue to the Pale Child Bakkalon outside a sellsword garrison. Another of the Hooded Wayfarer, placed where beggars commonly sat, pleading for coins and scraps.

After taking in his fill of the city of a hundred islands for one particular day, Jon headed back to the Lady Myriam, with Ghost, Vaaro and several other drunken shipmates in tow. The other men were weaving about on the cobblestones and attempting a poor rendition of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’, when she appeared from a side street.

Clad in the rich red robes of her order, the priestess stood regally, her hood pulled up to cast her face in shadow, though night had not yet fallen and it was hardly cool. Her skin was a pale, creamy white, her stature tall. Jon could not guess her age, though her youth was apparent, as there was naught a winkle to her flesh and her breasts were high and full. Her red lips were set into a secretive smirk, below two equally red eyes, burning brilliantly from her attractive face.

Jon watched as she smoothly floated toward him, until he could see nothing but her smouldering eyes, and the equally bold ruby glittering at her throat.

“I have looked into the flames, and there I saw you, my lord,” she whispered, her words crackling like freshly lit kindling.

Jon said nothing, unnerved and intrigued in equal measure.


	35. Sansa XVII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Father had gathered his bannermen and supplies much faster than Sansa anticipated. In the interim, Mother was beside herself with worry. She had taken to following Father everywhere he went, hissing at him under her breath. Berating him for making such a foolish choice. She said the entire point of the Night’s Watch was to defend the realm from barbarians, so that great lords didn’t have to do it. That Ned had every advantage, due to his close relationship with the King. If Benjen and Lord Commander Mormont truly believed the threat was credible, she insisted that Ned should appeal to Robert directly, and have him send a true army.

Father would only grimly state that the mission was a scouting one. He claimed it was merely a ranging to gather information. The need to behave discreetly was evident, to avoid unwanted conflict with the wild tribes. Father would not even be flying his banners as they travelled, unless absolutely necessary. If all went well, no one would be aware of his movements North of the Wall. This only served to worry Mother more. She was convinced Ned would be set upon by ruffians immediately, mistaken for a Black Brother. Catelyn had Ned’s manservants remove any black leathers from his travel pack, and insisted he wear only shades of brown, grey and muted green while he was gone. Ned would rub her arms from shoulder to elbow reassuringly, whispering heartfelt promises to be cautious.

Sansa said nothing, knowing it was entirely her fault that Father was risking his life. If she hadn’t sowed the seeds of malcontent with Benjen, this situation might not have arisen. She had encouraged him to confer with Old Nan. Benjen might not have felt confident sharing his findings with her father, had he not. Sansa’s guilt grew only deeper, aware that she could not truly be sorry for this mission. Everyone needed to understand the threat from the North was credible. Father needed to see proof of some kind before he would investigate further. As for the rest of the realm, the word of men not detached from it due their allegiance to the Night’s Watch, would be useful indeed. Benjen Stark’s word would be enough for Northmen. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, held more weight with the South. Sansa knew only Father was likely to convince Robert Baratheon to send his troops to defend the Wall.

Sansa pleaded with the gods that Father would remain safe, even Beyond the Wall, protected by his guards and Storm. Lately, Sansa had taken to sitting beside the massive mother direwolf and whispering all her fears into her fluffy fur. The she-wolf was devoted to Theon, but Storm was also fond of the Starks, including Father. She had growled at a merchant that had been short with him, only scant days ago.

Storm spent long hours loping through the wolfwood, sometimes gone for days at a time. She had startled the guards after returning from her first overnight excursion, approaching during the pre-dawn gloom, eyes glowing and muzzle sticky with blood. It was Sansa’s hope that a long journey would appeal to the wolf. Sansa intended on sending the direwolf with the ranging party. She hoped the she-beast would consent to leave Theon. Storm was acclimatized to the Stark household at least. She knew they would feed her, if there was nothing for her to hunt. Sansa hoped it would be enough to persuade the wolf to remain with them, and not return to Winterfell prematurely.

Sansa had run her mind over the defences the party might need, should they encounter a White Walker. She understood from her past conversations with Jon and Samwell Tarly, that the Others should not be close to the Wall at this time. The powerful creatures had remained far out of reach, until they made their assault on a huge gathering of wildlings Jon had been unable to save. The Others had remained in the Lands of Always Winter for long a time. They marched to war when they had picked off enough wilding clans to amass their army. Nothing Sansa had done to change her own life should have any impact on the goings on North of the Wall. Events there should remain largely unchanged for some time, before the loss of Jon began to make an impact.

Sansa had pestered Mother a little, to learn what she could of Father’s plans. But Mother was of the opinion that none of them needed to know the details. Sansa her questions were mostly futile, gaining only platitudes in reply. Sansa learned more from Robb, who Father had taken into his confidence. If Robb was nervous about being left to rule Winterfell in their lord father’s stead, he did an excellent job of masking it. Robb seemed excited for the opportunity, and proud of Father. He thought it very exciting that Father might join the ranks of Starks who had fought and killed wildlings Beyond the Wall.

One afternoon, Sansa came across Robb in the godswood. He was leaning against the heart tree as she had seen her Father do half a hundred times, cleaning Ice. The gigantic sword was taller than her brother, from hilt to razor-sharp tip. Sansa felt her heart almost seize in her chest to see him looking so confident with it.

“Why do you have Father’s greatsword?” Sansa asked with a creeping sense of foreboding.

Robb grinned up at her, clueless. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

He tilted the sword in his hands in awe. The wide blade caught the sunlight, making the distinctive ripples in the Valyrian steel glimmer and shine. Robb looked every inch a hero from a song, clad in soft brown leathers, his Tully red hair burning attractively in the dappled sunshine gleaming through weirwood leaves. Sansa shuddered. Well she remembered the sweet sing the blade had made, as it whipped through the air to cleave off Father’s head on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. She could not deny the beauty of the sword itself however.

“Father says I can keep Ice here at Winterfell, as it’s not practical to fight with. Too bloody large,” Robb laughed, breaking into her appalling memories. He was blissfullly unaware of all the horrific implications of his words. “He thinks the Northern lords will respect me more, as acting Lord of Winterfell, if I lay it across my knees when holding court.”

Sansa gaped at her brother for several long moments. Valiantly resisting the urge to scream at him for being so foolish. But Robb had no way of knowing that Valyrian steel was the one weapon that Father could defend himself with. Should he actually encounter a White Walker, nothing else would save him. Sansa had not known that she could feel so breathtakingly foolish with fright. She had not thought to check that her lord father would take his greatsword North with him. Ned Stark was one of the few men in Westeros who possessed the very weapon necessary to survive battle against the true enemy. He was willing to set it aside. And he might well have done, because Sansa hadn’t had the foresight to ensure he kept it in his possession. Her stomach swopped, threatening to collapse. Sansa swallowed back her bile. The idea that she might have discovered this circumstance too late to prevent it didn’t bear consideration. Wordlessly, she turned to march away and tell Father not to disregard his only weapon of worth.

Immediately, she remembered how futile that would be. A pox on Father’s lack of wonderment! Why couldn’t he be a suspicious man, willing to indulge silly superstitions? Instead, she was forever tied by her inability to face an issue head on with honest words. Sansa turned back to face Robb instead, trying not to let her face give away her desperation. Her big brother was watching her with a furrowed brow. Evidently she had already perplexed him with her reaction.

“Father is being incredibly short-sighted,” Sansa lamented softly, “Does he not remember how Brandon the Breaker defeated the Night’s King, with Ice? How Bael the Bard’s own son beheaded him, with Ice? Kings of Winter have always wielded Ice Beyond the Wall. The wildlings will recognize and respect it. Don’t you think?”

It was all she could think of to incentivise its return. All men were enchanted by Valyrian blades, she knew. To be trusted with an ancestral sword was a great honour, and Sansa suspected Robb would be reluctant to pass up the chance to wield it.

Robb frowned deeply, considering the sword in his hands again. Sansa held her breath.

“Maybe Father ought to take it. It was named for a blade actually made out of Ice, you know. I'd wager the wildlings think it’s still the same one!” Robb grinned mischievously.

“Probably,” Sansa agreed, knowing wildlings understood little about life below the Wall. Still, she did not recall Tormund or any of the others being overly concerned with weapons, the way that most Westerosi men were. They seemed to grab whatever was at hand and focused on being as brutal as possible with it. Crude, but effective.

*

To her great relief, Robb confirmed that Father had accepted her reasoning regarding Ice. Robb seemed a little disappointed, but soon rallied at the thought of being left in charge. He was already making plans to abuse his power, and demand blueberry tarts at every meal. She wanted to laugh at her brother’s gleeful antics, but Sansa was gripped too tightly by indecision. Sansa could not shake the thought that she was being too reticent. Working from the shadows was no use to anyone if they ended up dead because of it. She resolved to provide a clue to the men riding North.

But how to give it? An opportunity dropped into her lap before she could come up with a good excuse. As Captain of Lord Stark’s Guards, Jory Cassel was undertaking the journey. But his horse had lately thrown a shoe. He came to Sansa to politely enquire if he could borrow her mare, Sunbeam. She was a garron, specifically bred to survive North of the Wall. Sansa was very happy to grant this request, and seized the chance to set a condition for it.

Jory was not a man who could easily conceal his feelings. He could not mask his confusion, at her preferred method of payment. But he promised to faithfully relay the message Sansa had asked him to deliver to Father and Uncle Benjen, once they had passed Beyond the Wall. She even heard him muttering it out loud, to better remember the words.

“What weapon can best defeat a monster of ice and magic? Only one that carries fire within it.”

She had to pray it would be enough. Sansa would not be able to explain any direct knowledge. Her supposition was that Father would be too busy keeping his men hale that he would not think too much on the words, unless they became necessary. She did not welcome questions, but some situations would always be worth the risk.

If uncomfortable enquiries were made at a later stage, she had an excuse at the ready. To her mind, it felt too flimsy to stand up the light, but she has become a proficient liar. She thinks she can pass the riddle off as something she had come upon in a dusty old book of legends. A ditty long forgotten. The words were similar enough to the phrases found in stories of the Great Other, and the Last Hero, that she had long learnt by heart.

*

Winterfell was quiet for the first few days, once Father’s party had ridden up North. After a tearful goodbye, Mother was capable only of brittle smiles, and the pretence that she was unmoved. Faithfully, she spent long hours in the Sept, lighting candles in front of the Warrior and Father. Oft bidding Arya and Sansa join her. The girls did as they were told, if only to bring a fleeting smile to their lady mother’s lips. Neither of them wished to give her cause for more grief.

Scant days after the men had marched North, the children received a letter from Jon. It was addressed to Robb, but included passages directed to each of them in turn. Father had his own separate letter, which Master Luwin dutifully sent on to the Wall. The raven would reach Castle Black far in advance of the troop, and Sansa thought it sweet indeed that Father would have good news waiting for him.

Jon had safely arrived in Braavos, and had spent several days observing and adjusting to the Free City. Then he outlined his thoughts and forwarded his missives with a returning ship. Jon took delight in the odd clothing, language and customs of the Free City. He talked of enjoying the food, especially the local sea catches. He claimed they were much fresher and more varied than the North could offer, even on the coast. He was particularly fond of the spiced crab, which was served with a sweet hot sauce that made the eyes water.

Ghost was particularly glad to be back on solid ground. Though the silent wolf had acclimatized better than the Captain of the ship had expected. Land creatures generally detested being confined on board, which is why the man usually refused live cargo of cattle and poultry. Thankfully, Ghost had been on his best behaviour, despite throwing up when they had encountered rough currents. Jon explained how he had taken on extra chores aboard the ship, in recompense for the privilege of favouritism. His tone was fond when describing his duties aboard the ship. Evidently proud he had mastered his knots, and could now scramble up and down the rigging with ease.

Jon found dealing with the heat of Essos the most difficult task. He said it was most strange to walk about with no fur cloak or leathers. Jon felt quite underdressed everywhere he went. He found the salacious dress of many women, and men’s habit of walking the streets shirtless, very off-putting at first. But now he understood the practical benefits of it, it was less offensive.

Jon had also been disturbed by the Red Priests and Priestesses that preached on the streets there, mysterious and ominous in their flowing red robes. One such woman had taken an interest in him specifically. She claimed to have looked into the flames and predicted a ‘great destiny’ for him. Leery, Jon had tried to avoid her, and the streets where such preachers dwelled. But somehow the girl kept finding him. Sansa had tensed up at that. Then felt foolish for doing so. Truly, it was to be expected that others of Melisandre’s ilk would see the same potential in Jon as she had. They spoke into the same flames, after all.

Their wayfaring brother also relayed an incident of great amusement. One night Jon had been too deep in his cups to realise what he was agreeing to. Thus he had woken to a severe stinging on his left shoulder. The lowborn sailors Jon had befriended on the journey, claimed that no self-respecting man could call himself a sailor, without the badge to prove it. This had resulted in Jon now having a tattoo. It was a small ship among rough waves, with a proud white wolf standing regally on the deck, inked high on his shoulder. The lines were swirling, all in shades of blue and white. Robb thought this tale was hilarious, Rickon joining in with his laughter out of pure delight. Arya bemoaned the stupidity of dyeing your own skin, whilst Theon grimaced. He said Jon was lucky if his arm didn’t drop off from disease, some poison in the ink or needles.

Jon had commissioned one of the other deckhands to render his tattoo’s likeness on parchment, to include in his letter. The man had some skill with charcoal. Sansa assessed the image with a critical eye, and could not fault that the design was indeed beautiful. Still, it was traditionally the mark of a savage tribesman. Only mountain clansmen permanently marked their skin in Westeros. Sansa sighed heavily, relieved that at least it wasn’t a dragon.

After the letter had been fawned over and thoroughly discussed, Theon walked Sansa to her room.

“Should you like to visit Braavos some day? To see the crowded streets for yourself?” he asked as they walked arm in arm.

Sansa had never left Westeros. She thought perhaps she would like to venture from its shores, if they ever reached a time of peace. Braavos seemed rather unadventurous, however, and she told him so.

“Yi Ti then, to see your water cows.” Theon teased with a smirk.

“Mayhaps I would like that very much.” Sansa grinned in return, “When you are Lord of the Iron Islands we shall have many ships at our disposal. We could set sail with trusted men and search out treasure in far flung lands.”

“Treasure, eh? And what else shall we do, in these strange and distant lands?”

Sansa shrugged. She hasn’t given it deep thought. Too many obstacles lie in her path until she will be free to follow her wanderlust. “Climb mountains to see miles of desert wasteland. Ride zorses across the plains. Swim in warm, jade green waters. Kiss under unfamiliar star-scapes.”

“Sounds like a lovely dream,” Theon said wistfully. They had reached Sansa’s door, and he turned to face her.

“Aye,” she conceded, “There is no one I’d rather dream it with.”

Sansa rose to the tips of her toes to wrap her arms about his neck, drawing her future husband into a sweet kiss. There was still time to enjoy such indulgences. She fully intended on taking advantage of the quiet moments they had left, before the shadow of war fell upon them all.


	36. Lyra

THE SPIRITED TRAVELLER

_Parry, thrust, retreat, parry, thrust, retreat._ The rhythmic movements of her body kept her focused, clearing her mind of all other thoughts. Sweat dampened her hair and dripped from the tip of her nose, but she did not allow her clammy hands to slip on her axe. Her enemy expected an easy fight because of her sex, and she would make him pay for his assumption with blood spilt on the dusty earth.

Her axe clanged against his shield with a solid thump, the dull sound ringing out in the yard as she immediately took aim and landed another blow.

"Keep going, girl!" Ser Rodrick's voice rang out, loud and lively over the noise of their scrap.

Lyra panted with exhertion, determined to fight on until the bitter end. Her foe gave no quarter, ramming the sheild against her breastplate to drive her back with her heels dragging in the dirt, as he charged forward to cross blades with her once more.

"Do you yeild?" Sigurd demanded with a salatious grin.

Lyra returned his smile with a broad, mischevious one of her own, "Never!"

"That's my girl!" 


	37. Sansa XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do not grieve and do not weep, but close your eyes and go to sleep._  
>  -Vasilisa the Beautiful, Russian folktale

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa stared at the boy shifting underneath her scrutiny, critically. This was an unexpected outcome of her Father travelling to work with the Night’s Watch. One that she could not have foreseen.

Samwell Tarly knocked his meaty fists together nervously, peering at the girls in her sewing group in mild terror. Beth and Jeyne were looking at him in dubious confusion, whilst Lyra Mormont had a thread dangling from her mouth, from where she’d paused in the middle of snapping it with her teeth. Arya was staring at the boy in complete bewilderment, unable to understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be in the sparring yard. Sarella Sand was openly giggling, albeit behind her hand. Sansa rolled her eyes at the other girls before turning back to smile gently at Sam.

Theon had unceremoniously dumped him in the classroom. Along with the disparaging words, that Robb feared the fat boy would piss himself, if they kept attempting to spar with him. If Robb had been there, Sansa would have cuffed him across the ear. It was a blatant insult to send a boy to do women’s work, because he didn’t fit with the menfolk. Sansa despaired of her big brother sometimes. Though he oft showcased great sensitivity and tact, Robb still had an awful lot to learn about diplomacy. Sam was still the eldest son of a great House, and Sansa was going to remind Robb of it with a few scathing words. But all that could come later. Right now she had to deflect the damage to Sam’s pride.

Sansa had no choice but to hiss at Theon to be kind, under the guise of stepping close to receive a chaste kiss from her betrothed. The kiss lasted too long to be considered anything but heated, however. They lost themselves in sensation, and Theon only let her go at the prim cough of Septa Mordane. The elderly woman’s severe look was enough to send him skittering from the room, with a sly grin on his face. Sansa shook her head in fond amusement.

“Welcome, Sam.” Sansa then said with a gentle smile. “Would like to learn to sew? It’s a wonderful thing to be able to reattach a button, or darn your own socks.”

Sam blushed deeply at her attention. He was seemingly stupefied in the face of a group of giggling girls. He took far too long to gather his wits enough to answer. Sansa kept her smile rigidly fixed, in order to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“I’m not very good at doing things, with my hands. Better at just reading. Only need eyes for that.” Sam let out a nervous bark of laughter.

“I’m sure we can find something for you.” Sansa replied, taking the chubby Southern boy by the arm, leading him to an empty seat. He squashed into the chair beside Sansa's ladies-in-waiting like a potato among cakes and sweets. And frankly, he looked just as ridiculous, but Sansa pressed down her mean thoughts. Sam was a kind man who just needed a place to belong. If she utilised him, he could be a brilliant ally, despite his awkward look.

She left the sewing room at a brisk walk, quickly finding herself in Bran’s chambers. It was the work of scant moments to rummage under her brother’s bed, and unearth his book on Northern history. She recalled how good Sam was at research, and knew this particular tome contained information on the Long Night. She could only hope that Sam would be curious enough to piece together whatever Father and his troops uncovered Beyond the Wall. With the half-forgotten legends in these dusty pages, he should be able to work it out. A clever man had fallen into her clutches, and she wasn’t about to let him go with out exploiting that fact.

Bran wouldn’t miss the book, since when they returned from the Dreadfort, they left Bran behind to take up his page duties for Ser Domeric. Mother had her hands full fretting over Father’s trip, and caring for little baby Mini, to protest any more about the appointment. In fact, Mother had seemed proud that Bran was so excited to squire for her uncle, Ser Brynden, in the future. Being a page at the Dreadfort for Domeric was the first step toward that. Rickon moped about the loss of his usual playmate however, and had taken to following Robb about the castle everywhere. Robb didn’t really mind though, which was a relief. He liked that Rickon hung on his every word, and always agreed with him. If they could somehow persuade him to teach Shaggydog some manners, the boy would be on the road to being a lord. Alas, Shaggy was still liable to bite the head off a pigeon and scatter the feathers in Mother’s recently cleaned chambers, which he had done on more than one occasion.

Sam was positively terrified of their wolves, despite his first introduction to them being the placid and friendly Lady. Shaggy had put paid to Lady’s efforts to befriend him. He had quickly butted his sister out of the way, and growled at Sam so ferociously, that the boy had tripped and fallen on his rump during his scramble to get away. The Stark guardsmen had hooted with laughter at the sight; an inauspicious beginning for Sam living in their castle.

Sansa wondered how Sam Tarly would fit in at Winterfell, without Jon to befriend him. It made excellent sense that Lord Commander Mormont would rid himself of a burden, as Sam was not exactly soldier material. She had previously considered the fact that Sam would likely die at the Wall without Jon’s assistance. During his time at Winterfell, Sam had imparted much about Jon’s early days at the Watch. Sansa knew his tutelage at the sword and bow was the reason why so many of the green recruits had gone on to be competent fighters. Under Ser Alliser Thorne, they were more likely to be beaten into submission than learn anything useful. 

But Sansa had reasoned to herself that she had to remain focused on the bigger picture. Not to concern herself with each individual tiny piece on the board. It simply couldn’t be her duty to save everyone. She’d drive herself mad if she tried.

But the Old Mormont bear had done it for her. He’d taken advantage of Ned Stark’s presence at the Wall, to get a highborn lad that was not sent to the Wall for any crime, out of his hair. Samwell’s Tarly guards, assigned by his father to ensure he reached the Wall and didn’t run away, had long since returned to the Reach. Sam was free to leave, having not yet taken his sacred vows. Sansa wondered what she could make of him. Then a bolt of inspiration hit her. She knew exactly what to do with Sam, or more accurately, where to send him. Because as previously pondered, he was the eldest son of a great House. And therefore good marriage stock, despite being a craven.

*

Sam became a fixture in the sewing room, reading his books. He’d blushed so bright Sansa thought he might be choking, when she had assured him he could borrow Bran’s book indefinitely. Now he often carried the tome about with him, like a token of gratitude. Or at least a reminder of her acceptance.

At first the girls hadn’t known how to react with a boy in the room, but pretty soon they forgot that it was considered unusual for Sam to join them. They began to speak freely in front of him. Lyra even encouraged him to spar with her. With a gentler opponent, and plenty of padded straw armour, Sam learnt a little. It would never be his strength, but then there would always be a need for book learning and other forms of service to a realm. Not every man grew up to be a soldier.

Sansa was less inclined to be charitable toward Sam when he stumbled across a heavy petting session she was thoroughly enjoying with Theon. They were in the safety of Robb’s Tower. With Lady Gwyn at the Dreadfort yet again, and Theon’s mother safely asleep in her room upstairs, they were free to indulge themselves. What started with kisses had led to Theon’s confident, smooth hands sliding down from her shoulders to brush against her bosom. When Sansa sighed heavily into his mouth, and did not protest, Theon pressed his advantage. His hands fluttered beneath the gentle curve of her small breasts. He swallowed Sansa’s deep moan. Theon’s thumb grazed across the central swell of one breast, and she wrenched his hair strongly beneath her hands, enjoying the sound of his resulting hiss. His hand dropped lower, quickly tangled in the laced ribbon tying her dress together at the front. It was a wrap dress, the kind Sarella had shown her how to make. Similar to the style Sansa had often worn in the court of King’s Landing.

She pulled back from the kiss when she felt Theon freeze. His hand was still on the easily unbound ribbon. She bit her plump lower lip, casting him a sultry look from below her eyelashes. He groaned, unable to resist. One hand was enough to tug the bindings undone. The two halves her dress immediately fluttered apart. Theon moaned again at the sight of her smallclothes, plunging one hand beneath her dress to fondle her waist, pulling her close to ravish her neck. Sansa tilted her head to one side to allow him better access, sighing in content.

This was how Samwell Tarly found them. Theon with his hands firmly beneath Sansa’s open dress, ravishing her, to her obvious delight. The poor boy almost chocked on his own spit, in a hacking fit of coughing that seized hold of him. Theon was furious, clearly wanting to thump the boy. Whilst Sansa flushed, horrified to be seen so compromised by someone outside her family. She whipped around to place the boy at her back, fumbling at the ties of her dress.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Theon roared, “Get off on watching do you, you little creep?”

Still fumbling with her laces, Sansa was only just able to grab hold of Theon before he lashed out.

“N-no!” Sam squeaked like a mouse, “I-I thought-”

“Thought what, you Southron fuck? I should put out your eyes!” Theon snarled, which Sansa thought was quite enough. She planted herself in Theon’s path, placing a soothing hand on his chest.

“Peace, my love.” She whispered, taking his face between both of her hands, forcing him to stare into her deep blue gaze. “I’m certain Sam was just lost.”

“Yes!” Sam squealed like a mouse in a trap, “I was looking for the library! I was told it was in a tower…”

Theon sighed heavily, visibly relaxing the tense set of his muscles. Sansa sent him a knowing look, wiggling her eyebrows. Correctly guessing her intention, Theon sent her a protesting grimace. But she only pressed her lips together in silent command. With a put upon sigh, Theon stepped out of her embrace.

“Come along, Sam. I’ll show you to the library.”

Sam gave a nervous giggle, edging back toward the door. “That’s alright, no need to bother, I’ll find it. Not too many towers about the place, really-”

“Nonsense!” Theon exclaimed when Sansa sent him another demanding look. He clapped the younger boy on the shoulder with a wry grin. “I didn’t mean all that stuff about your eyes. I’m not a monster, just a kraken. We’re quick to anger, see, but there’s no point in grudges. Once a kraken has finished ravaging a ship, it returns back to the depths. Then the sea is calm again. Come on, Sam. Bet I can find you a book all about them.”

Sansa’s lingering smile was a proud one, as she watched her beloved lead the way, with bright chatter. Taking on the boy that so needed a friend.

*

Oberyn Martell had expressed an interest in seeing the Wall. So he had gone with Father’s party North. There weren’t too many opportunities to go Beyond the Wall, a part of Westeros known by few. It was too intriguing a prospect for him to pass up. It meant that Ellaria Sand, as well as his daughters (aside from Obara, who had accompanied her father, against the advice of everyone) were left at Winterfell. And furious with the Northmen, when a rider came clad in black. The bells of Winterfell rang out to announce his arrival. The scruffy man hurried to the hall where Robb was holding session with the smallfolk. His clothes were muddied and he declined refreshment, his message too urgent for delay.

The ranging group that had gone North had split into two groups. The party which contained Father, Uncle Benjen and the Dornish had not yet returned. They were feared lost. Ellaria spit fire at the messenger, who recoiled in fear. Nymeria imperiously called for the servants to provide her with a pack, for she was going to ride North and retrieve them herself. It took hours to calm the rabble, with Robb doing his best to mediate the worried Northmen and furious Dornish.

In the subsequent days Mother was a wreck. She dragged Sansa with her into the Sept. Sansa did not complain or decline, not even when her knees grew numb from kneeling on the stone for so long. Mother lit a candle in front of all Seven gods and knelt in front of the Father, with her head bowed deeply in supplication. She prayed to the Father to give her lord husband strength, and to the Warrior to guide his hand in battle, so he could return to them. But as the days went by with no word, by raven or rider, Catelyn Stark began to pray to the Mother to grant her husband the mercy of a clean death. 

Robb grew pale and quiet whenever anyone addressed him as Lord Stark. The possibility of it being true was too close for comfort. Sansa watched as her brother grew withdrawn in the face of his potential responsibilities. They agreed not to send Jon word, when they had no confirmation yet of anything. Sansa never wanted to be the one to pen that letter. She wondered how Jon had received news of Father and Robb’s deaths in their previous life. She had never thought to ask. No one would have written to him, she did not think. He must have gotten generic word from the Lord Commander, as though it were not his own kin that had perished. She felt immense guilt then. Someone should have written to Jon personally, to offer words of comfort and love. She hoped Robb had written to him after Father’s death, but now she would never know.

Sansa said little to anyone. She spent her time praying in the godswood. Asking that she might be granted visions through the trees as Bran once was. She wanted to see her father through the eyes of the ancient weirwoods in the frozen far North. It was a cold comfort to know that Father had Storm and Ice with him. All men must die, after all. No matter the weapons or protection a man has, death always comes for him in the end. So Sansa lit a candle to the Stranger. She prayed in her Mother’s Sept that her family would be granted room in the Seven Heavens if they perished. That they would not be forced to wander the world as corpses directed by the Night King.

She didn’t hold out much hope. She knew her prayers almost always fell on deaf ears.


	38. Torghen

The wedding was to take place two years hence. Initially, Torghen didn't expect the Vale man to still be present by then. But he could not shake the feeling that young Carl would have revealed many more of his secrets by then, and the gods only knew what they might be. The path before them had seemed certain and clear, and he had not lived to such a ripe age by being an incautious man. But prophesies were dangerous things and needed to be handled with care, and in this particular instance, handled they must be.

The Vale boy did not seem aware of the prophecy himself. Like all Southron cunts he had an arrogant streak thick as a stream, but he was at least willing to work. And he refused to leave, meeting the conditions determining if he should stay, with bullheaded stubborness. Most men respected him for that, albeit grudgingly. Artos still argued for pushing the boy off Flint's Finger whenever he was too deep in his cups. But that was jealousy, simple and easy to detect. Torghen was not blinded by it. And even Torghen admitted that Carl had made great improvements in his fighting and sword use. He had been green as the spring grass when he first arrived, dusty and weaher beaten, with his strange accent and funny clothes.

As always, the Northmen were reluctant to accept an outsider, even such a young one. But Torghen knew the North was not as it used to be. The Ned was a good man, a better lord than his father had been in his latter years. Yet even the Ned was as ambitious as the Rickard's latter-day years, and the possibility of a betrothal between the mountain clans and the Stark of Winterfell were days long behind them. The mountain men needed fresh blood if they were to survive. Close breeding lead to thin-haired sheep, it was known. 

If the rumours that the Ned was lost Beyond the Wall were true, melancholy clouds were on the horizon. Not much was known about the Stark in Winterfell, holding the North for the Ned while he was gone, but Torghen would wager nothing good came from a weak trout woman with dwarf's blood. Her stocky children were not Northmen. Already, there were grumblings among the men that the true Northman, the one sent away to sea, should be the Stark in Winterfell. Torghen was inclined to agree. Better a Northman of half-baseblood, than a trueblood Seven-worshipping, Southron whelp, simpered over by his trout mother.

Torghen only hoped that it would come to war between the brothers. The Vale boy could handle being blooded in battle, at this point. But Torghen was not convinced Artos would react well to Carl's persuit of his sister, likely to be accepted, if the young man proved himself on the field of battle.


	39. Jonelle

THE DIFFIDENT TRAVELLER

She had long been accustomed to playing with the Stark children in her own home, but her visits to Winterfell had been far fewer than she would have preferred. There were more people than there had ever been before. It was almost claustrophobic, being crammed into the hall each night for dinner, but there was something merry about so many people coming together each night to eat and share stories.

Sansa had ever been the template for proper behaviour, and Jonelle hoped it did not make her uncharitable to say she was glad when Sansa decided that included daily sparring in the yard, and archery lessons. Jonelle had never had so much fun in her life than when Lyra finally left her side wide open, and Jonelle was able to land a direct hit. So exhilarating! To scuffle in the dirt like savages with the Dornish, yet spend their afternoons in laughter and friendship, as they sewed lovely dresses while kindly Sam read to them.

Though not a dashing, handsome man like Lord Robb or Lord Theon, Jonelle did not think she minded that Sam's sweet, flushed smiles were directed her way. Not every man need be a wonderful knight from song, sprung from the page to sweep a lucky girl from her lonely fate. She would settle for a kind man who would read to her and collect wildflowers from outside the safety of the keep, the way Sigurd did for Lyra. Yes, would be a very nice prospect indeed. Now, if only Sam would pluck up what courage he had, she was sure her father would approve of the match. And they would live out their days in quiet, mutual happiness, as they both deserved.


	40. Sansa XIX

THE LONE TRAVELLER

All of Winterfell rejoiced when a raven finally put them out of their misery. Father and his ranging party were alive, and eager to return as soon as possible. Several of their bannermen had died with no explanation given as to how, but no highborns of name had perished. Obara Sand and Uncle Benjen had been badly wounded, and though Obara’s wounds were like to heal nicely, for a while Benjen had been at the Stranger’s door. Father wrote that Lord Commander Mormont had granted Benjen leave to return to Winterfell indefinitely, as Maester Luwin had a better chance of saving him than Maester Aemon, who was blind and infirm. So the party returned to Winterfell, bedraggled and numb from the horrors they had witnessed.

Mother had hurried to Father’s side when he alighted from his horse, clasping his hands into both of hers. Wordlessly, their foreheads met as they rekindled the warmth between them. Ellaria Sand was more expressive. She gave a wordless cry when Oberyn appeared, fleeing to his side to embrace him roughly, and kiss his lips. Obara was swarmed by her younger sisters. They clasped her by her uninjured arm, clucking in disapproval over the think bandages about her head and left arm.

Men carried Benjen Stark’s prone body between them, down from the cart they had transported him on, heading toward the first floor of Maester Luwin’s tower. It was a room reserved for sick patients that needed all day care. Father stopped them with a brisk word. He ordered them to take Benjen to the empty room beside Robb’s, in the family quarters.

“It was his room as a boy,” Father said with a grim smile. Robb, who was taking his turn to welcome Father home, looked up at him sharply in surprise.

Jory deftly alighted from Sunbeam’s back, and made his way to Sansa, to thank her for the loan of her horse. Her hardy animal was pleased to see her, snuffling at Sansa’s hair as she petted the beast’s long regal neck.

For a brief time, all was as it should be.

*

Father sent for his vassal lords to attend upon him in person, no envoys to be sent in their place. Aside from Lord Manderly, who was too fat to travel easily. He was the only Northern lord granted leave to send his son and heir in his stead. Catelyn had looked extremely alarmed at that, but Ned had requested that no one ask him questions about his journey, until he had given his own account.

The party was too tired to do much but sleep the first night and day. Father didn’t wake up until just before dinner, Sansa heard Mother impart to Lady Gwyn, who had returned to the castle when they received word that Father was missing. She was a comfort to Mother, as usual, the two women close in confidence.

It was a somber feast. Guardsmen had died, including both North and Dornishmen, and the returning men were all too melancholy and subdued for the traditional merry atmosphere. Sansa noted that the smallfolk had been banished from the room; indeed only Father’s most trusted guardsmen were in attendance. Accompanied by his bannermen, Lords Cerwyn and Bolton and their sons. They were the only two close enough to make it to Winterfell as soon as they received word. The other lords were expected in a sennight, even the Lord Reed, who never left the Neck. He would have to set off immediately and ride hard if he expected to get there on time.

Sansa also noticed that the men were expected to serve themselves; the servants had been dismissed, leaving only a hall filled with the Stark family, their guards, the Dornish, the Boltons and the Cerwyns. Lyra Mormont, Wylla Bolton, Samwell Tarly and even Arya, Bran and Rickon were not allowed to attend. Arya had been furious that Sansa was invited to be there, but Father was unmoved by her hollering. Sansa felt a shiver of anticipation run down her spine, realising that Father didn’t truly want her there either. Judging by his grim expression, Father wanted both his daughters away from whatever ugly truths he was about to impart. Sansa worried for him; he appeared to have aged several years in the short space of time he had been gone, his hair streaked with more silver than she expected and the lines about his face more pronounced.

After eating in muted almost-silence, Father finally rose to his feet and began to talk. He spoke of Lord Commander Mormont’s plea for assistance, and how the Night’s Watch had started to find the remains of dead wildlings, mutilated, their desecrated bodies spread out in the snow in bizarre patterns. The Night’s Watch had suspected for some time that the wild men Beyond the Wall were amassing an army under Mance Rayder, the so-called King Beyond the Wall. There were murmurings at this, as it was news to many.

Father then gave the floor to Oberyn, to Sansa’s surprise. She supposed he must want another lord to share the burden of revelation.

“We travelled for miles before seeing another living soul.” Oberyn snorted, “These people live as rats, and they were not pleased to see us. But they did not attack. They wanted only to keep moving on; but where, they would not tell us.”

Sansa shifted in her seat, wondering if this mission had all been for naught, and they had merely gotten lost, perhaps attacked by a snow bear.

“Then we came across one of these ritual killings. Heaps of bodies, laid out in the snow, in a spiral. From a hill above, our scouts saw what the Lord Commander had described. We all climbed up high, to see it for ourselves.”

“We believed a savage tribe had taken to frightening their enemies with these displays. That Mance Rayder was gathering support from the opposing clansmen to fight back against this threat.” Father continued. Sansa guessed that this was a logical progression of thought, for men who did not believe the Others were a genuine danger in this Age.

“Then we saw we were wrong.” Oberyn hissed, before shaking his head in disbelief and disgust. “Had I not seen it, I would not have believed any man that told me of it.”

A long, menacing silence was dragged out, after that. Sansa felt Robb tense in his seat beside her, the whole room poised on a knife edge, waiting for more.

“We were set upon that night. By a man-shaped creature with unnatural blue eyes.”

Hissing and muttering swelled in the room at that. Mother’s disbelief was palpable. She stared up at Father with her mouth hanging clean open.

Father raised his hand for quiet, and after several grudging minutes, he was granted it. “It was a man, just a man. He died as a man, cleaved in two by my own greatsword. But not before killing two in our party.”

“The ground up there is entirely frozen. We could not bury them. We thought to bring them back to Winterfell.” Oberyn chipped in, and Father nodded, confirming his words.

“We did not know the consequences of our actions.” Father said. “For the next night, those dead men, men I knew and trusted, men I knew to be dead… they rose back to their feet, their eyes that same abnormal blue, and attacked us.”

There was uproar. Lord Bolton was the only man who seemed outwardly unaffected by the news, whilst the other men called out that it could not be true. Again, Father waited for quiet.

“I know that it sounds impossible. Maester Luwin, have you ever known me to be a man that believes in omens, or magic?”

Maester Luwin blinked, not anticipating being called upon. “No, my lord. Ever have you been a logical man, not given to flights of fancy. I have never known you to tolerate those who spoke of prophesy, visions, omens and the like.”

Father nodded sharply. “Indeed I have not. You know me to be a man of reason. I swear to you, for a moment we all believed we had gone mad.”

“But we did not!” Obara called out suddenly, her voice full of fire. “Those dead men attacked us! And they would not stop, not even when we hacked off their limbs. They kept coming, crawling on their bellies across the snow.”

“A blizzard whipped up around us, blinding us to the threat,” Father continued, “And those that died joined the ranks of our attackers.”

“We thought all was lost.” Oberyn revealed, looking down at Ellaria, grief expressive on his face. He had given up on ever seeing her again, Sansa could tell from the slump of his shoulders. They had truly lost all hope.

“Then we were saved.” Father finished, “I do mean true deliverance, my lords. None of us would have survived in that blinding snow, surrounded by enemies on all sides, were it not for the intervention of another.”

“Who was it Father?” asked Robb, unable to keep silent any longer. “Was it the wildlings?”

Finally, the ghost of a smile crossed Father’s face. “Not quite.” He held out a hand, palm side up, to introduce their savior.

From behind the Dornish party, out stepped a small person with near silent steps, clothed in all dark green leathers. It was only when she passed into the light that Sansa could see the woman’s skin was entirely grey-green also. Her huge, wide-set eyes, were a piercing gold like all the direwolves save Ghost. Had Bran not described them to her in detail, Sansa would not have known who and what she was looking at.

“The Children of the Forest,” Sansa breathed, unable to hide her shock. Theon grasped her hand tightly, his knuckles white above her own.

“Seven hells,” she heard him gasp under his breath.

The silence in the hall was absolute. The Northmen were staring at the diminutive woman in open awe.

“It cannot be,” muttered Lord Cerwyn, “We thought you long extinct.”

A small smile settled on the lips of the Child, who was of course not a girl, but full grown for her species. Theon and Robb shared incredulous looks over Sansa’s head, but her eyes were firmly fixed on the strange addition to her lord father’s hall. She had never met a Child before. In her previous life, the ones Bran and Meera had known North of the Wall had all perished in a battle against the Night King. If any others existed in Westeros, she had not known of it. She wondered what it could possibly mean that one of them had chosen to accompany her Father below the Wall.

“Thank you for joining us here tonight, my lady.” Ned Stark took control of his hall once more, though in truth his fellow lords and bannermen were all too shocked to say a word.

The Child smiled again, dipping her head in a shallow bow, setting one foot behind the other to give something of a half-curtsy.

“What is your name, my lady?” Roose Bolton cut in, his sharp ice-blue eyes meeting her golden ones without expression. “If I might be so bold as to enquire.”

The Child set her gold look upon him, and consented to answer.

“The name my Father game me is in the True Tongue, and can be spoken by no man. Bran named me Leaf. You may call me the same, if you wish.” Her voice was melodic and beautiful, and entirely inhuman. There could be no doubt that she was not of man; her strange lilting tone would have confirmed it to a blind man, that did not take in her visage.

“Bran, my lady?” Mother reiterated, no doubt thinking of her own young Brandon.

Leaf’s smile was a deep one at that. “Yes. I was fond of him. He was so very proud when we completed this castle.” She looked about the room, as though taking in the alterations since last she saw it.

Father started, gaping at the small woman, who looked younger than him. “Do you mean to say you helped build this castle, with Bran the Builder?”

“Is that the name by which you know of him?” She shrugged, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “I knew him only as Bran. Did you believe he could have woven such magics as those here, alone?”

“Magic?” Father repeated, quickly distracted by the revelations pouring from Leaf’s mouth. No one protested at the turn the meeting had taken. Sansa was just as enthralled as everyone else.

“How else do you think the water in the pools remains so hot? We set many wards among the stones of this fortress. For protection, prosperity, and long life of the families that live here.”

“How can such charms last?” Maester Luwin asked, and Sansa remembered with a jolt that the old man had forged Valyrian steel link on his chain, meaning he was learned in the higher mysteries- the pompous Oldtown way of saying magic.

In answer to the man’s question, Leaf walked closer, approaching the high table so that her strange, alien features could be better seen in the torchlight. Her eyes flickered over the old man, and not with warmth. Sansa wondered what it was about the old maester that the Child did not approve of.

“Blood.” Leaf said decisively, her eyes and tongue sharp, “Much of magic depends on blood. Bran swore to me that his blood kin would never leave this place. That one of his line would always remain within its boundaries.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Father murmured, as though a long-pondered mystery had finally slotted into place, and Sansa supposed it had.

“Should none remain, the spells would begin to unravel. Eventually, this place it would tear itself apart, stone by stone.”

Maester Luwin’s eyebrows shot up, unconvinced, but Father looked alarmed.

“Forgive me, Lady Leaf.” Mother cut in again, “Might I ask how you killed these… undead men, and assisted my lord husband?”

Leaf’s countenance became friendly once more.

“We used fire to destroy the thralls. Then we lead the descendants of the First Men back to Bran’s Wall.”

“There are more of you, then?” Asked Lord Cerywn, “You are not the last of your kind.”

“I cannot speak of the other clans. My people remain, though we are few in number.” Leaf confirmed, taking a moment to look about the room.

“And you chose to leave your people, and accompany our lord back to his home?” Lord Bolton pressed, the question on everyone’s lips inferred among his words. Why had she come?

“I did not know when I might have another opportunity to meet the seer,” Leaf announced, “I could not risk this chance.”

There were more mutterings at that, and Father’s eyes dropped to the table below, clearly uncomfortable by this development. Sansa felt fear tightening its bands around her heart. Without quite knowing why, she suddenly understood who Leaf had come for.

Sansa was unsurprised when the tiny creature turned back to the high table, and settled her glowing eyes upon her.

“Will you tell me what you have learnt, when you speak to the gods? What your Sight has shown you, of the war to come?”

It was not immediately clear to many who exactly Leaf had singled out. The heads of those seated at the lord’s table swivelled back and forth, looking to see who had been addressed. Only Sansa remained stoic and rigid, her face having lost all colour. At long length, she accepted her fate and stood, her pale green skirts rustling and settling about her like the flutter of spring leaves. A buzzing began in her ears, the susurrus murmurings of her shocked family and their fellow Northmen. Oberyn Martell was staring at her, his eyes glittering darkly with satisfaction.

“I have seen a great battle, raging among snow and ash, between men and pale creatures of ice with terrible, inhuman beauty. I have seen an endless night, where children are born and live and die all in darkness.” Sansa’s voice rang out in the silent hall, the Northmen hanging on her every word. A single tear dripped down her pale cheek.

“I have seen the Promised Prince of Ice and Fire leading the charge against the King of the Night,” she whispered at last; “I have seen the Others.”

The old gods would have their oracle, Sansa knew. Bloodraven had been denied Bran, and so he had claimed her instead, as punishment for her interference and misdeeds.


	41. Bloodraven

THE OMNISCIENT TRAVELLER 

The great war was almost upon them and still the foolish girl refused to show her face to him.

_I know you feel me, willful child. Heed my words. We both seek to drive back the great darkness. Do not allow your stubborn pride to stand between us once more. Align yourself with me and we will defeat the great one together._

Silence roared in his ears, and he could see nothing but deep, dark shades of red, wine-thick like spilled blood.

_Show yourself, and let us set aside the pain of the past._

But she did not come. She never came; her fury was absolute, her mercy nonexistant. She was much like her mother that way.

_Melony!_

He cried out in vain, for she did not believe she needed him. His only reply was the sound of laughter carried on the gentle breeze, in a voice light enough to sing the sweet songs of the earth.


	42. Sansa XX

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa felt the ripple of discontent rush across the room like a wave of fear. The Northmen stared at her in varying shades of shock or fright. The Dornish looked disgusted, and Sansa remembered with a sudden blow how wargs were considered little better than slavers by the Andals, who considered them as dark and unnatural as shadowbinders. She wondered if they suspected she was the same.

Leaf did not look surprised at who had spoken to her, or her words. She only looked satisfied, her smile sharp as a razor’s edge.

“Sansa?” Mother’s voice rang out, finally carving open the silence.

Sansa turned watery blue eyes to the woman that had passed them down to her. Mother shook her head, apparently speechless. The thin threads of her dark red tresses were bobbing, the pieces that were not drawn back and woven in the simple Northern fashion. Aunt Gwyn was watching Sansa with mild confusion, but she seemed more intrigued than anything else.

Sansa looked back at the table immediately below her, and almost moved to sit down again, until her Father spoke.

“Lady Leaf is not the only one who chose to accompany us back from the Far North.” He said, and Sansa went rigid, unable to move at those words.

It could only mean… The guards posted at the large mahogany double-door opened them to reveal a band of about five or six men, clad in roughly sewn furs, with primitive weapons and shaggy beards that had never seen a comb. Ruddy faces with jaws filled with yellow teeth, and small eyes accustomed to snowstorms. Sansa felt her heart leap in joy, quite forgetting herself as they shuffled in, clearly unnerved at being so outnumbered.

“Tormund!” she called, thrilled and unable to keep a large smile from splitting her face.

Sansa had wracked her brains trying to imagine how she could bring about an alliance between the Northmen and the Free Folk. But without Jon at the Wall, there was only so much influence she could wield. Benjen was as set in his opinions about the wild men, as any other hardened Brother of the Night’s Watch. Sansa could not rely on him to attempt to parlay with them over their common interests. Not until the threat of the White Walkers was widely believed and understood by actual Northmen.

Her heart had been saddened to think that she might never befriend Jon’s gruff wild man friend again. That he could die, fighting against her father’s own forces or in some other manner, and all possibility of a bond Jon and Tormund would be lost. In her joy to see that despite direct intervention on her behalf, Tormund had found his way into Winterfell, she clean forgot that he would not know her.

The tall, bulky warrior lifted a thick ginger brow in askance.

“You know me, girl?” He rumbled, scratching at his bushy beard in false nonchalance. “Because I don’t know you.”

Sansa blushed and fumbled for a reply. From the corner of her eye, she saw Father shift, tense in anticipation of a brawl. Around the room, Stark men placed their hands to the hilts of their swords. Bolton men had already bared steel at the sight of their long-time enemies.

“Only from my dreams,” Sansa eventually lied, “I have seen you fighting alongside my brother in battle. You were the greatest of friends.”

On her left Robb tensed, sitting up in interest.

Tormund narrowed his eyes in disbelief. He had not failed to miss Robb’s interest, or the common features he shared with Sansa.

“That your brother? The small man?” He pointed at Robb, a mocking grin on his face. Robb bristled at the intended insult.

“It is.” Sansa confirmed, aware that the situation was quickly devolving from whatever her lord father had intended. “But not the one of whom I speak. I saw you fighting with my brother Jon, who is not currently here. He is across the Narrow Sea, in Essos.”

Little Leaf tensed at that, twitching with words on her lips, but she did not release them. Ned Stark took control of the room again, before the situation could get any more bizarre. Sansa sat back down as he began to speak. Theon was as rigid as rock beside her. She made to touch his hand with her smallest finger, looking for comfort or else wishing to impart it. But he twitched away from her, flinging his hand down into his lap so that she could not touch him. Hurt, Sansa slumped against the back of her chair.

“My lords, we have invited these men from Beyond the Wall to treat with us on behalf of their leader, to see if we cannot come to some common ground.” said Father, his Lord of Winterfell mask firmly in place.

“Common ground? With lawless savages?” Lord Cerwyn protested in disbelief, but to everyone’s surprise it was Oberyn Martell that leapt in to defend them.

“These men aided us in our fight against the undead. They lead us to safety, with no guarantee of their own when they passed into lands in the charge of the Night’s Watch. Your liege lord has granted them guest right. Would you turn your back on our ancient traditions of hospitality?”

His tone was clipped, his countenance severe. Lord Cerwyn shrank in his seat, chastened.

“O-of course not!” He protested with a small whine, “But you cannot expect us to trust anything-”

“You will respect that these men have a right to speak for themselves in my hall, Lord Medger.” Father said, “As I have invited them here to do just that.”

The wildlings chuckled at that, baring their teeth. Father beckoned them further into his hall with a wave of his hand. Aunt Gwyn clutched at her dinner knife as though it were a dagger, Mother equally tense at her side.

“Gods be good,” whispered Robb, “Children of the Forest, wildlings… what’s next? Giants?”

“Please,” said Father loudly, “Tell us what you know about the creatures that attacked us.”

“Wights,” said a wildling Sansa did not know. “The dead controlled by the Others.”

“We saw nothing of the Others.” Ned said, “Am I understand they need not be nearby to control the dead?”

“They wield their great power from huge distances. They need not be close.” Leaf confirmed.

“Because you made it so.” Sansa snapped, already ready to be done with his farce. She knew more about the origins of the Others than all of the men in this room combined. Her talks with Bran had been extensive. She did not want to live through another lifetime where the myths surrounding the Others as a separate species from men persisted. The time for honesty had come, and in this lifetime, she actually had one of the culprits before her to demand answers from.

Leaf tensed, her small hands curling into fists. “You know not of what you speak.” She hissed, her unassuming, harmless demeanor gone. In its place was a battle-hardened warrior, grimly acclimatized to carrying out great atrocity.

“I know enough!” Sansa roared. “Why don’t you tell them, Lady Leaf, from whence the Others came?”

A stunned silence spread across the hall again. Sansa sat high in her chair, regal, every inch a Queen of Winter. Her blue eyes flashed with fury.

“It is believed that they are a race of beings from the Land of Always Winter, another form of sentient life, that died out long ago. If they indeed still exist, are we to believe these facts are incorrect, Lady Sansa?” Maester Luwin asked softly.

“You would be better to ask Lady Leaf.” Sansa replied grimly, “She helped create them.”

Leaf bristled, but did not deny the charge or look terribly ashamed.

At long last, Father asked, “Can this be true? Do you know how the Others came into being?”

“We were at war.” Leaf said, “We were losing. Your ancestors where cutting down and burning our sacred trees. Driving us from our forests! We had no choice.”

You always have a choice, Sansa wanted to scream. You do not always have to work in your own interests at the cost of all others. It was a lesson that none of the them; not Cersei or Tywin or Baelish or Daenerys had ever learnt.

“No choice but to…” Maester Luwin pressed gently, but he received a sneer from Leaf all the same.

“To forge a new weapon. It was an experiment. To see if we could control a man the way some of us could control beasts.”

“Skinchangers,” Mother hissed with repugnance.

Leaf nodded her small grey head. “He was a warlord. A brute, who had massacred hundreds of my kin. The grand-sire of Bran, the one you name Builder. We transformed him into something new. But we failed. He did not stay underneath our control for long.”

“The first White Walker.” Sansa confirmed. “Their leader, the Night King?”

“He was a monster. We did not intend for him to turn even more so. But his blood carried too much power; the devotion of his people. Men are creatures of spring, of light. We needed a beast of endless winter to drive them out.”

“Why did he turn on us? If the Others were once men, as you claim, why did he fight against us?”

“He didn’t, not at first.” Leaf shrugged, “After breaking free from our power, he seemed too lose all will to fight. He was no longer human, no longer akin to any living creature. We had wielded him in battle against his own son, but lost control of him when he came to understand who he was fighting. As the years went on, more of him turned to ice and darkness, until he lost all memory and notion of what it was to be a man. His ability with ice grew in power, until he could forge weapons and armour.”

Leaf seemed to feel some shame then, crumpling forward and in on herself.

“Bran wept to stand against him. To drive his own kin back and build a wall between our peoples.”

A swift thought burst in Sansa then. “Is that why a man was said to marry a woman of the Others, and breed with her? Because they shared a common ancestry?”

“How else should your ancestor wield a blade of ice crystal? The first Other forged it for him.”

Apparently Ned Stark felt that was enough revelation for one evening, as he coughed pointedly. It was only then that Sansa took in the rest of the room, staring at her in abject horror and fascination. Theon was positively green. There was little she could do to rectify the situation, however, save for remaining quiet whilst her Father wrapped up the proceedings, with promises to address these revelations again in the morn.


	43. Obara

THE OBSTINATE TRAVELLER

They marched asleep, the driving snow biting at their eyes and gluing the lashes shut. She thought of the hot sands of Dorne, the heated stone patios and lush, clear pools of the Water Gardens, aching for a home like a babe craves to suckle. The monstrous apparition clawed its way through the snow like a rabid nightmare pulled directly from her wildest, most irrational fears as a child. But this was no child's frightening dream, a figment of an overactive imagination fed by tall tales and some instinctual fear that all men are born with, that by necessity they must all learn to overcome.

This was an unwanted memory risen from the depths of her darkest terrors. Though she knew it to be a dream, Obara could not wake. Not till the dead beast that had once been a friend was already tearing her apart. Then she woke in a cold sweat, fear stinking on her skin and sheets. Through the gloom of the dark, she saw Nym's bright eyes glittering at her knowingly, free of their usual smug superiority. Obara said not a word, for words would do nothing to improve the situation, and would only spread the fear like greyscale in a brothel. She rolled onto her other side, pulling the covers high to tuck them beneath her chin, and pretended to get some more sleep.


	44. Sansa XXI

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa waited nervously for the inevitable confrontations from her brothers and sisters. She was not surprised to find Arya in her bed, evidently in an attempt to stay up and find out what all the secrecy was about. Fortunately, Sansa was spared Arya's persistent questioning style, as her sister was curled up beneath the furs on her featherbed, fast asleep. Sansa was careful to crawl into bed beside her, slow and quiet. Sansa didn’t want to risk waking Arya, and being prodded for information, when she doubted she would get little sleep as it was.

Theon had left the feast as fast as his feet could carry him, though Sansa had attempted to waylay him. He had even gone so far as to shake her hand from his arm, when Sansa had reached out in a bid to stall him. Robb had sent her a grimly sympathetic look, but did not seem confused by his friend’s reaction. Sansa was not shocked either, if she were honest with herself. The ‘facts’ as they had been presented in the hall had painted her as a liar, or at least very reticent and deceptive.

But she had hoped Theon would afford her the chance to explain, before simply dismissing her.

Sansa rose early to catch him before they had to break their fast, dressing herself in an easy wrap-dress. Arya huffed and moaned, but was eventually persuaded back to her own room to ready herself for the day without any satisfying answers to her queries.

Despite Sansa’s best effort, she found the door to Theon’s chambers open, the room empty. His bed and hearth were cold, having not been used. Sansa bit her lip in worry, knowing that Theon would have spent the night in his mother’s chambers. If she set off immediately, she could still catch him, so that they could speak privately. Mind set, Sansa whirled about to do just that, only to find herself facing a solemn-faced Robb.

“Father wants us to break our fast in his solar.” He said, firmly enough for her to understand that it was not a request.

Disheartened, Sansa did as she was bid, and followed her brother to the interrogation that she knew awaited her. She sent furtive glances Robb’s way, to gauge the state of affairs. His grim look, jaw rigid, did nothing to ease her worries.

Her parents were already seated, but her younger siblings were nowhere in sight. It was to be only the four of them. Father’s face was firmly set in the mask of Lord Stark, whilst Mother looked harassed, her hair not as neatly arranged as usual, her eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep. Sansa resisted the strong urge to apologise for the stress she had caused them. It would do no good now. Words are wind and empty platitudes would not make swallowing the medicine of truth any less nauseating.

The servants silently set out the plates of food, before hastily leaving. The doors to the cosy room were promptly closed decisively by the guards, pointedly all posted outside. To Sansa’s great relief, Father bid them all eat before asking any questions or making another statement about the far North. Sansa could see that Mother especially was impatient to get to the truth, but thankfully she too stemmed her tongue, in favour of attempting to eat. None of them wolfed down as much as they could manage on a normal morning, but Sansa supposed that was only to be expected. If her family’s stomachs were anything like the knotted ball of muscle hers had become, she knew why they only picked at their food.

When their plates were clear enough, and the food washed down by cool water, Father finally spoke.

“I think perhaps, you have a tale to tell us?” He began gently, looking deep into Sansa’s eyes, for perhaps the first time since she held the secret of Jon’s mother over his head.

His soft voice made tears spring to Sansa’s eyes. She had not anticipated so much tenderness. Sansa had prepared herself for their chastisement, for keeping secrets, and not sharing her worries. The reality of sympathy was almost a more difficult weight to bear. She had been so alone with her burden for so long, to have someone to share it with was no small feat.

Sansa fumbled for where to begin, looking out across the room. She had suffered a restless night, torn between telling the truth as she knew it, or accepting Leaf’s suggestion of otherworldly abilities. What might be more believable? Had she changed too much to accurately predict anything as ‘proof’ of her abilities? Would she be able to explain the changes she’d made without sounding the fool? There were so many aspects to consider.

In the face of her silence, her brother leaned closer to catch her eye. Sansa bit her lower lip, still extremely conflicted about which path to choose.

“Does it have something to do with what you once envisaged for us? The lives you said we might lead?” Robb prompted, with a sweet smile.

Grateful for the opening, Sansa nodded silently in return. Robb looked vindicated, a satisfied set to his shoulders, as he sat up straighter in his chair. To buy into whichever narrative he had already constructed would be easier, Sansa assumed. Any of her strange behaviour, he recent choices such as arms training, her insistence that Jon be allowed to train in White Harbour, all could be explained as a result of her new ‘gift’ from the gods, if she allowed it to slot into place without forcing the issue. Assumptions would help her cause more than outright proclamations.

“What do you speak of?” Mother interrupted her thoughts swiftly, before Father had the chance to ask for more details himself.

Sansa sent Robb a beseeching look. She didn’t want to muss the details by revealing too much. Better that Robb explained what he remembered, allowing her to slot in anything he missed. With luck, they would be convinced by her foresight before it was time for the noonday meal.

After taking a long moment to visibly collect his thoughts, Robb delivered her temporary salvation.

“Sansa spoke to us of the futures we all might have.” He said hesitantly, cautious to get the facts correct, “At first I thought it was just a kind of jape. But then she went into more detail, and it seemed like a plan she had developed over time. I thought then that it was too advanced for a girl of her age to have authored, but without another explanation….”

“And what did she say the future holds for House Stark?” Father asked tonelessly. Sansa wondered what feelings he was concealing. Confusion and unease, certainly. Hurt, that Sansa had not come to him with her revelations? Irritation that Robb hadn’t either, as his responsible son and heir? Curiosity at what their past conversations entailed? Or a confusing amalgamation of them all?

Sansa could tell Ned Stark was trying his best to be open to the possibility of it all being true, despite his misgivings. Nothing was better for altering one’s beliefs and priorities than a trip North, Sansa mused mirthlessly. The creatures Beyond the Wall, once confronted, could not be denied. Nor the danger they possessed, over-estimated. She had learnt as much when the Wall had fallen. After that, she was forced to acknowledge all she previously suffered before then was only the beginning of her trials. There were no foes so utterly without mercy and reason than the Others. At least her other enemies, Cersei, Ramsay, Baelish and the rest, could be manipulated, outmaneuvered and eventually defeated.

Robb looked to Sansa, before speaking for her. She nodded in grateful encouragement.

“Well, she said I would be a… great leader, and that Bran would fight by my side. And that… he would be the Lord of Riverrun someday.” said Robb, with an apologetic look to their lady mother.

Mother gasped at that, growing pale at the implication inferred by Robb’s speech. Robb winced, unable to undo the effect of his words, and sent Sansa an imploring look. No doubt wanting her to take over.

“Is this true?” Mother demanded of Sansa, who nodded reluctantly, and finally spoke.

“It isn’t certain.” said Sansa begging them to believe her. “These things I have seen, they can be changed. I have already tested it.”

“And these dreams you spoke of? Is that where you saw these visions?”

Sansa fidgeted uneasily in her chair. It was a mantel she would have to accept, though she was no greenseer. The truth was too preposterous and terrible to impart.

“It is,” she lied brazenly, “Though sometimes I see things while waking, when I pray before the heart tree.”

It was even more fabrication, but it had been true for Bran once, and it served a vital purpose. Tying her knowledge to the gods, would be the quickest way to legitimise it for her Father, who believed the gods spoke to us, if only we would consent to listen.

“What have you seen?” Mother pressed, while Father and Robb absorbed the new information.

Having a relative communing with the gods on a regular basis, was something Sansa wouldn’t wish on anyone. It had been a struggle to care for Bran, when he became like a tree himself, stoic and emotionless.

“Many things,” said Sansa simply, “It would take too long to explain them all.”

“We have time, Sansa.” Father replied softly, but Sansa began shaking her head before he finished speaking.

“We don’t,” she countered, “Not before the darkness falls.”

They all looked very uneasy at that, faces pale as they exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“Will you expand a little, at least, on what you spoke of before? Jon fighting beside wildlings? And what you know of the Others?” Father asked, in a tone that told Sansa she would not leave this room until she consented to do so.

Thankfully, it was the correct topic, the one which Sansa must press most of all, before the realm became obsessed with who sat upon the Iron Throne. She quickly nodded, to show her willingness to comply, before studying her hands in an effort to work out how to begin.

“The sun will set, and not rise again for years,” she predicted, careful not to give specific dates or durations, lest it happen differently in this life. “We must prepare for a second long night, a winter harsher than these Seven Kingdoms have seen since the Age of Heroes.”

“We can trade for supplies from Essos and the Reach. We can build storehouses, and fortifications for Winter Town. If Moat Cailin can be rebuilt in time, we can store more there.” Father mused, while Mother and Robb seemed plainly horrified by her words to do much practical thinking.

“It won’t be enough,” Sansa denied, her red waves bouncing as she shook her head, “You need to convince all the Northern lords to do the same, to sell anything they can do without and buy food, but also Dragonglass from Stannis Baratheon.”

“Dragonglass?” Father repeated, brow furrowing in puzzlement, “Whatever for?”

“It kills wights- the undead creatures you fought.” Sansa revealed, proud to be finally revealing something of utmost importance. “The castle at Dragonstone is sitting on a literal mountain of it. Stannis will give you a fair price for it; he has no use or interest for it.”

“Gods be good,” Father whispered, “Sansa, are you sure of this?”

“Unequivocally,” Sansa said immediately. “Have men of the Night’s Watch carry it, to test the theory, but I know it to be fact.”

“What else do you know of, that can aid us in this fight?” Robb asked, full of the brash optimism of youth.

“Valyrian steel kills the Others themselves.” Sansa said promptly.

For a while there was nothing but shocked silence. Sansa saw at once a look of revelation come across Robb’s face, and offered him a lop-sided smile of confirmation. Still, it did not stop him from voicing his realisation out loud.

“That’s why you persuaded me that Father should take Ice, North of the Wall.” he breathed out, somewhat in awe of her, for managing this feat without honest explanation.

Robb had much to learn about persuasion and manipulation, Sansa thought wryly. He could not hold to this level of innocence, if he was to become a great leader, as he had so timidly put it.

“That was your doing, Sansa?” Father clarified, “Robb insisted the wildlings would recognise the blade, and grant me greater respect. And Jory told me a curious riddle that had me glad of the decision.”

Sansa said nothing, waiting for Father to ask a direct question. With a sigh, he did so, but it was not what she had anticipated;

“And Jon? You never explained the connection between him and this fellow, Tormund.”

Sansa shrugged. Being too specific now would be pointless. Jon had met Tormund whilst on a catspaw mission for the Night’s Watch. The same thing could never happen now.

“I only saw a bloody battle in the snow, where they fought as brothers. Tormund defended Jon from foes, and they were great friends. That is all I saw.”

Father seemed mollified with this explanation, however, whilst Robb was clearly intrigued as to how their brother would come to befriend the notoriously fierce wildling. If they ever actually met in this world. Sansa briefly wondered how she might manipulate circumstances to bring them to the same place at the same time, before remembering she had far more important objectives to secure. The gods could handle the meeting of Jon and Tormund; they had already seen fit to bring Tormund this far south, where it was far more likely their paths may cross.

“And what of Riverrun,” said Mother, always eager to turn the subject away from her husband’s supposed bastard, “What is to befall it, that Bran becomes its lord?”

“That I did not see,” replied Sansa promptly, “And as I said before, these things are not set. They can change.”

“How do you know that, Sansa?” Father asked demandingly, clearly becoming frustrated at her non-elaborate answers.

“Because I saved Jon Arryn’s life.” said Sansa, before she realised she was going to do it.

The idea had come to her as a sudden inspiration, and she quickly seized upon it, surprised she had not thought of it immediately. It was, after all, the reason they had not yet been invaded by a contingent of Lannisters and false Baratheons. It was the perfect solution; if pressed, Jon Arryn would admit the contents of the letter Sansa sent him to a man he considered almost a son. And Father would be proud and grateful that she had saved his foster father.

Father’s eyebrows flew up, and he sat forward in his chair. Sansa knew then that she had him.

She explained how she had written anonymous letters, admitting to inciting the Martells to come to Winterfell, so that they might be future allies. She did not mention the one to Stannis about Gendry. She wanted no association between Gendry and Robert until truly necessary. Cersei and the Lannisters had too much power for the nonce, and though she suspected Stannis had told her father the truth, Father at least could be relied upon to keep those facts to himself. Mother, she was not so sure of. Mother trusted people because of their birth and status, rather than for who they had proved themselves to be in action and word.

Which is why it was also important that Mother be broken of those assumptions now. Sansa did not mince her words as she explained how she had seen Aunt Lysa pour something into Jon Arryn’s drink, and how he had been laid out with stones upon his eyes. Mother paled, horrified and trembling, before her control snapped, and she denounced Sansa as a liar seeking attention.

“Horrid girl!” Mother cried, “What do you hope to achieve from these lies?”

“Peace, Cat.” said Father stiffly, deeply affected by the potential danger to his old mentor. “Sansa is only relating what she has seen.”

“You believe this, Ned?” Mother gasped, “My sister would never-”

“It has been many years since you last saw her, Cat.” Father countered, “From all reports, Lysa’s many failed pregnancies have put a considerable strain on her. We do not know all the circumstances, but we cannot rule it false outright.”

“I will not listen to this,” Mother snapped, primly gathering her skirts, ready to take her leave. “Ice monsters and Children of the Forest are one thing, but to accuse your own aunt of murder? Sansa, I do not know what will become of you.”

Mother shook her head, shrugging away from Father’s hand when he tried to slow her progress to the door. He stayed on his feet, watching it close behind his wife in consternation at the abrupt, unpredicted end to the meeting.

Robb offered Sansa a supportive look.

“She’ll come round.” he said, reaching across the table to give Sansa’s hand a quick squeeze. Robb believed her, unflinchingly.

“Oh, Robb,” Sansa sobbed, sorry that she had wanted him to become more politically savvy and less optimistic all the time. He was perfect exactly as he was.

Sansa launched herself out of her chair and into Robb’s arms, gratified when he caught and embraced her immediately, stroking her back soothingly. Finally affording her the comfort she had been sorely missing, since the world had been upended by their guests from the far North.


	45. Bran

_"You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I loved them, I miss them, but they made stupid mistakes."_

Bran woke with a stuttering gasp. Choking on a feeling so heartbreakingly melancholy that it radiated out from his chest like a sucking wound. It was so painful, for one awful moment Bran believed if he pressed his hand against his chest, it would come away soaked in blood. He sat up swiftly, roughly shoving his furs back. Frightened, unnerved, and not at all surprised to feel wet tears beaded on his rounded cheeks. The girl's misery and fear still had a grip on him, seizing his bones, but every moment he sat in his featherbed, fresh air and sunlight streaming in from the window, her influence receded a little more, until Bran alone breathed in the clean air.

He recognised the voice of the woman speaking, but who she was he could not have said; the memory of the voice too vague. As with all dreams, the harder he tried to concentrate upon it, the swifter it slipped away. Like smoke between his fingers.

At least, until Bran pondered the words themselves, at least what he could remember. And then all quickly became clear. As Bran carefully slipped out of bed and his bare feet met the warmth of the thick fur skin rug, he wondered what it could possibly mean that he had dreamed he was his sister, and spoke with her voice.

He could not revel in his bemusement long; a maid arrived to dress him, and in the bustle and excitement of the new day, the dream was quickly swept aside.


	46. Sansa XXII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Theon was in the godswood when she finally found him. Seated at the foot of a familiar pockmarked oak, scarred by her arrow holes and the score marks from his knife. He was rubbing a shiny apple between his hands, and the heavy set of his brow told her Theon might currently be weaponless, but she should not mistake that for defenseless. Sansa knew to expect resistance and defiance, and that her pretty words and sweet smiles would not be enough. She had shown Theon some of her truth. More than any, he had looked past the genteel lady Sansa fastened about her face each morn, to glimpse at the wolf cloaked within. But even he did not suspect the extent of her deception, and she well knew how terrible it was to learn someone you accepted as an ally, was false. 

Sansa’s only hope was that Theon would listen to her attempt to explain, and learn to trust her again. She might have concealed vital facts from him, but it was done out of love and not spite, nor a desire to toy with his affections. Providing Theon could be convinced of that, Sansa knew she had a good chance of winning him over quickly. It would be far harder if Theon’s pride was too wounded, to willingly swallow her next mouthful of pretty lies.

Truly, Sansa did not know how she would react if Theon rejected her outright. At first, her efforts to get close to him had been purely motivated by her mission. Her personal goal of becoming a competent archer seemed like the best method. Acquiring the skill from the best teacher available, while fostering good relations with a desired ally. It would have been ridiculous to waste the opportunity, and seemed like killing two birds with one arrow. She had not intended on making him more than a close friend, a foster brother to her, as he had been to Robb. 

But somewhere along the path, Sansa had realised she no longer cared for her goal of finding a Northern husband. Cynically, her betrothal to Theon would actually be a more decisive way to tie his loyalty to House Stark. Yet Sansa would not have demanded upon it, using such base vicious methods on her lord father, if that were her only reasoning. No, her feelings for Theon were genuine, and compelling. Not yet love, but then Sansa had never actually been in love, not the deep, consuming love that could ruin dynasties and plunge Kingdoms into war. What would she know of it? Save knowing that her heart raced, when Theon so much as pinned her with that stormy ocean gaze, that his kisses tasted sweeter than any drizzle of lemon on her lips. That would be mere lust, not love, if it were the story entire.

But they had common ground, and supported one another in their ventures. Sansa enquired about and truly cared for Theon’s stories of childhood. He too asked after her girlish activities, and had long since stopped teasing her about the interests they did not share. He even bought her a pack of expensive moonpearl buttons, months after she had gushed about how pretty they were on dresses. Sansa had encouraged him to make positive inroads with his estranged family, without falling into the trap of pretense to the adherence of the Ironborn way. In turn, he supported her efforts to foster a better relationship with her siblings, and had made efforts to be kinder to Jon himself. They had a positive influence on each other, and made a good team. It was a strong foundation with which to build a relationship upon.

Even before they had their first kiss, they could share hours in private company, and never grow bored with one another. During their unofficial courtship, they had only grown closer, exchanging thoughtful gifts, and dancing joyously whenever they could wrangle the excuse for prolonged public touch. Theon’s japes made Sansa smile, his touch made her tremble, and she knew that her heart would break in twain, if he relinquished her and broke off their betrothal. Theon had grounds in Westerosi custom. He could call her visions madness, or if he was feeling charitable, claim she had mislead him with falseness of character, as she had not revealed the truth beforehand.

As cutting as her lady mother’s rejection had been, Sansa had not truly expected anything less. Yet she had not anticipated losing Theon over this issue, and was not sure how well she would recover from it. She would do her duty to her family, and the realm she was desperate to save from all the terrors lurking in the foggy dark, and deep snow. That should be sufficiently distracting to take her mind from matters of the heart. That, and regaining the love of her mother.

Catelyn Stark was a woman entirely enchanted by songs, but not in the way Sansa had once been. Sansa-that-was could not have believed anyone beautiful in the flesh to be rotten in thought and action. Similarly, Mother did not believe that anyone of low or base birth could be more honourable and trustworthy than a noble from a great House, born with wealth and prestige. The noted exceptions were the Freys and the Lannisters, but in Mother’s mind, that could be rationalised by their greed and foul breeding. She could never suspect her own family of the same base treachery or penchant for insane cruelty. 

Mother did not believe that experience shaped a person overmuch, at least not with the same importance as birth status and blood. Sansa knew that no amount of honeyed words could convince her Mother of the truth, until she saw it for herself. For Sansa herself had been the same. The teachings of her Mother and Septa had lulled her into a false belief of what the world would be, and no amount of gentle coaxing from Father or teasing from her siblings could convince her that life was not a song. Not until Joffrey called for her lord father’s head and called it mercy. Then the scales had fallen from her eyes, but it had been far too late. Lady, Father and then Arya had been lost to her before the war began in earnest, and then she was forced to protect herself with only her pretty words. Letting all believe she was too naive and innocent to be a threat.  _ A little bird chirping sweet songs from my golden cage, _ she thought, reminded of Sandor Clegane and his hidden efforts to protect her.  _ I should have seen it from the first, _ she ruminated,  _ how he tried to warn me of the ugliness of the world. _

She had yet to think of a way to repay him for his efforts to save her, but she hoped their paths would cross again in this life. Robert Baratheon should bring the Hound North again, and perhaps she would be able to persuade him to remain here, despite her lack of lustrous Lannister gold.

But it would be useless if she could not persuade a man who already loved her, or something close to it, to remain by her side. She needed to focus on winning him over, not future, perhaps fruitless, ideals.

“I thought I might find you here,” she began, she voice supple and soft as wind chimes.

“Did the trees tell you?” he asked snidely, already on the defensive against her efforts to lull him.

Sansa bristled at his tone, reminding herself she had mislead and manipulated him, in an effort to stay calm and remember he had the right of it.

“I know you must be puzzled, and have many questions,” she began, “Why don’t you ask me what you wish to know?”

Theon fixed her with a hard, unimpressed look. Gentle persuasion would not win him over today.

“How could you keep these prophetic dreams from me? I thought you trusted me. Was any of it real?” he eventually asked in a burst of emotion, after a long pause wherein Sansa considered pleading with him to give her a chance to explain.

“You will have to be more specific than that,” Sansa chided, “of what do you suspect me of hiding from you, save for an ability I did not understand nor wish to indulge? This time between us has been such a happy one, perhaps the best in my life. Or do you think me capable of faking all emotion?”

“How should I know?” Theon asked, leaping to his feet in a blaze of anger, “How can I know anything? You claim to have seen it all in the future, the lives of your brothers and sisters and me. So was any of it real, or did you simply accept that you had to win me over, knowing that one day we would be wed? A foregone conclusion you could not avoid, so had best make good use of?”

“Is that what you truly think?” Sansa asked, irritation creeping into her own tone. “That I would simply accept all I had seen, and meek as a mouse go to accept my fate?”   
  


Theon looked away from her, scuffing his boot petulantly against the leaf litter, huffing out his breath as he pouted in a sulk.

“I thought you cared for me,” he whined, “For me, not Lord Balon’s son, the future ruler of the Iron Islands, or any other title you might care to give me. For me alone. Not the chance that I might make you a Queen someday.”

He sounded so crestfallen that Sansa wanted to run and throw her arms about him, and promise him anything if only he would smile again. But a man’s pride is a fragile thing, and she knew he would not welcome her affection now.

“I promise you, Theon, what I saw for you is not the path you are on now,” she admitted, in a low voice barely legible above the wind. 

Theon chanced a glanced a look at her again, and she felt bold enough to step several feet closer, drinking in the unsure trepidation on his face. His mind had not yet been made up to cast her aside, so she yet had a chance to win him over.

“You did not see us together? We are not an inevitable match, that you may as well accept?” Theon clarified, and so Sansa felt sure enough to move even closer, and place her hand beside his elbow, resting daintily on his folded arms.

“Is that what worried you?” she asked, “Did you think none of my affection for you was genuine, only affected, to win your heart, knowing my life beside you would be easier if you loved me?”

It was not an entirely unlikely scenario, for someone who was truly a seer. Theon hadn’t shown any interest in Sansa until she had pushed her way into his orbit, forcing him to acknowledge her growing beauty and poise. She had ensured that he would come to care for her, with her attention and dedication, knowing few highborns gave him leave to monopolise their attention. Sansa was perhaps guilty of taking advantage of his vulnerability, but not due to a fated relationship she knew she could not escape. Quite the opposite.

“Is that not at least some of the truth?” Theon pressed, “Will you tell me honestly now; were we married, in these dream-visions of yours?”

“No, my dearheart,” she whispered, “In my darkest dreams I married a man, known to us now, who treated me ill and assaulted me daily. You had been tortured during the war, and became a pale shadow of your former self.”

Theon paled at that, his eyes widening as she rubbed at his arm soothingly, as though he were a skittish horse.

“We were both desperately unhappy, you and I. I had hoped to protect myself from my awful husband by growing proficient with the bow. I knew you to be the best archer in Winterfell, and hoped through the lessons that we might become friends. So that you would trust me, when I advised you on how to avoid being captured by your future tormentors. I did not intend for this feeling between us.”

Theon’s eyes danced about Sansa’s face, trying to determine her sincerity, and it made her sad to know that they had reached a point where he did not believe her outright, because of her past deception.

“You wanted to save me?” he clarified, wetting his lips with a dart of small, pink tongue.

“I did,” she confirmed, gratified when his arms began to sag out of their rigid posture, uncrumpling to hang down loose. “And in doing so, I unwittingly saved myself.”

He wrapped an arm around her back, holding her in a distant embrace. “These visions sound terrible. It must have been horrible to witness, with no one to turn to.”

“They were,” Sansa sniffled, moved by the first spoken sympathy she had received for her plight, “It was hard to be joyful, knowing what could await us.”

“If we are not fated to be together, how can we hope to have a future?” Theon asked softly, regretfully, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t want you to marry a man who will treat you ill and not cherish you as you deserve.”

“Oh, my love,” Sansa sighed, “I will marry no man but you. The future will be what we make of it. There is no fate, save for that which we make for ourselves.”

Then they spoke no more, for Theon mirrored her heavy breath and leaned forward, to press his forehead against hers, and hold her warm body close his, as Sansa sagged into his indulgent empathy.


	47. Stannis

THE DUTIFUL TRAVELLER

He grit his teeth, clamping his jaw down on the angry, vulnerable words that longed to escape. He did not see why Robert was so intent on travelling North for Ned Stark, a man who had never bothered to attend upon his own King, unless ordered to war. The famously loyal and honourable Ned Stark! He who remained holed up in his frosty realm, and never ventured to attempt to exert his influence; to force Robert attend council meetings or curb his wanton spending or cease his tasteless pursuits of loose women. Ned Stark, who paraded his bastard about his bitter hall and even bitterer wife, just another man weak to the temptations of the flesh.

If Stannis were to father babes outside his marriage, invite them to Dragonstone and then refuse to leave its shores, Robert would turn it into a giant jape at his expense; poking fun whenever possible. But at not Ned Stark. He was the brother Robert had always wanted, and no behaviour, no matter how immoral or aggravating, would ever change that. So Stannis abided meekly, when Robert pontificated on the savage pleasures of old, and made grand proclamations of his need to travel about the realm. As though there were anyone in the court that did not know Jon Arryn had fled the Red Keep as if his coat-tails were on fire; and Robert sought to chase him down to find out why.

Though Stannis had his own suspicions as to why Jon had sent his wife and son from court, most suspected the true reason was that Lysa's increasingly bizarre behaviour needed to be taken from public view. Jon had publicly claimed his wife wished to visit her ailing father. Baelish and Varys, sycophants and schemers of the worst kind, were likely to have ferreted out Jon's supposition that someone had made an attempt on his life. But neither Jon nor Stannis had told a soul about the Red Wolf moniker, or the mysterious warning letters arriving via Northern raven.


	48. Sansa XXIII

THE LONE TRAVELLER

They settled uneasily at the top table, Theon chivalrously leading Sansa into the room by the hand, before pulling out her chair. She sat primly, pleased by his obvious care and public attention. Robb took his usual seat to her left, gracing her with an approving, encouraging smile. No doubt Sansa would need his support again, before this meeting was through, and she was glad she could rely upon it. Robb's constancy was a boon to her, in a world of fickle, unpredictable foes and well-intentioned allies.

Father sat back deeply, brooding in his chair as the Northern lords, Ironborn and Dornish, and their trusted men, began to file into the hall. The intention had been to pick up where last night's discussions had ended, with the continuance of Leaf's explanations, tailored by Sansa's insistence on plain, not self-serving, truth. But it was not to be; Maester Luwin arrived wearing a frown heavier than his chains. Carrying a missive which he quickly handed to Lord Stark. Evidently, Mother had sent it; her seat was still empty, and looked likely to remain so.

Sansa was immediately, extremely troubled, by Mother's intention to refrain from attending the meeting. It was a very public proclamation of Lady Stark's displeasure. All the men knew her to be hale enough to attend, so they would correctly assume private strife in the household of their liege lord. Measter Luwin whispered that Lady Stark cited her duties in the nursery, and her lack of use in the discussions. Which all would recognise as an irritatingly obvious fabrication. Father was not pleased to hear it, his lips pressing together thinly in consternation; but there was nothing he could do.

Once all the men were seated, Ned Stark would have to he proclaim the reason for his wife's absence. His attempt would doubtlessly fail to convince anyone that it was the actual truth. There was no telling how deeply this blow would resonate, and Sansa cursed her inability to mollify her mother. It was important that the Starks present a united front, if they were to persuade the rival factions in the room to do the same. Sansa said nothing, giving no indication to anyone she had overheard Father's words, but judging by the way he had stiffened, Robb had recognised the damage that was about to be inflicted on their cause.

At the first opportunity, when Father turned to exchange greetings with Prince Oberyn and presented his back to her, Sansa darted out of her chair. She was across the room before anyone could think to notice her. Catching Theon’s curious eye and Robb’s questioning frown, Sansa shrugged helplessly, knowing there was no time to explain. An eel, she slipped out of the side entrance before Hallis Mollen, who was standing guard afore it, could think to prevent her. She hastily made her way to the family wing in a brisk walk. Despite the need not to tarry, Sansa was aware the sight of her running would be unusual enough to cause interest. She could not afford to be unduly noticed by prying eyes.

In the nursery, Rickon was building a wobbly tower from wooden blocks upon the rug, attended by Bessie, a dutiful nursemaid. Old Nan was seated in a comfortable arm-chair, knitting furiously by feel alone, her eyesight too degraded to be of use. Her fingers were a blur, and nary a stitch was dropped. Mother was seated beside her, cradling Minisa in her gentle hold, curled into the rocking chair. She stiffened at the sight of Sansa, her pale face sharpening, as though invisible fingers were pinching at the flesh.

“Sansa!” Rickon beamed, waving a wooden block in her direction.

“Hello, sweetling,” Sansa greeted him warmly, before offering her mother the same winsome smile (which she did not return), and a shallow curtsey as she bid her good morn.

Mother nodded stiffly, no words passing her stubborn lips.

“Bessie, leave us please,” Sansa ordered firmly, but not without kindness. The young woman turned to blink at her in surprise, before gathering her skirts about her without question. She curtsied to Sansa obediently, and left, closing the thick oak door behind her almost silently.

Sansa proceeded to take her place, her serpentine skirts rippling and hissing across the bare stone as she walked demurely to her brother. Rickon immediately handed her a block. The set had been oven-blackened and hand-carved by Father for Robb and Jon, when they were but Rickon’s age. They had all taken turns possessing them, and before long Minisa would too.

Sansa added her wooden cube to the growing mountain, the two Stark children taking turns. Until at last their unsymmetrical structure could no longer balance, and toppled to one side, collapsing in a heap whilst Rickon shrieked and hooted in delight. Whilst laughing at his antics, Sansa saw her mother’s reluctant smile from the corner of her eye. But she did not yet press her advantage, instead beginning the repetitive game anew, knowing it would take longer than that for Mother to drop all her defenses. Every ten minutes or so, she shuffled a little closer to where Mother was seated, disguising her movements as rearranging her skirts or making her legs more comfortable. When she was seated practically before her mother’s feet, she stopped.

After a half-hour of playing with Rickon, Old Nan’s fingers began to slow, and when at last Sansa was convinced the old woman was asleep, she turned to her mother. Minisa too was snoozing, her tiny snuffling breaths the snorts of a foal. Mother regarded her with feline-suspicion, but Sansa was not deterred.

“Mother,” she began softly, mindful that they were not alone, “I owe you an apology.”

Catelyn Stark regarded her daughter with grand surprise, before nodding decisively, as though she had expected such words to come from her daughter all along.

“I should say you do,” she sniffed primly, whilst jiggling the baby on her lap a little, to redistribute her weight. “I do not know what has come over you lately Sansa, but I am glad to see you have come to your senses. I only wish you had refrained from hurling baseless accusations against your own kin first.”

Sansa allowed her lady mother the time to get out the speech she had evidently been practising, without interruption. When she sensed there was no more to follow, Sansa replied.

“I’m sorry. You have mistaken my meaning.” She barrelled onward before Mother could protest; “I do not profess to be sorry for what I said. For I spoke the truth, no matter how much you wish it were otherwise. But I am sorry that the truth hurt you, and that I could not spare you from that pain.”

Mother’s nostils flared wide, her jaw clenching in so hard that Sansa heard the click of her teeth meeting.

“You dare to continue thus...to assault me, and the House of my forefathers, so? Rotten child, what have I done to deserve such disrespect?” Mother moaned, her lightning-flash of anger quickly making way for the rumbling thunder of misery.

Lady Stark shook her head in disbelief, at the audacity of her previously favoured child. Sansa suspected that her mother was wondering how she could have been fooled, into ever believing her eldest daughter was sweet-natured and innocent.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Mother.” Sansa pleaded, “It is never my intention to bring you heartache, I swear it by the old gods and the new. But I cannot go on ignoring the knowledge I carry about me, like a leaden weight hanging about my neck. My spine would break if I did not share it, and deservedly so.”

It was true that Sansa had never intended to bring hardship into her parent’s life or marriage. Ugly truths needs must be revealed, but she wished she could have done so in a manner that was not quite so distressing. Yet Sansa had become staunch in her beliefs, and she refused to waver now.

Sansa continued to champion the need for truth, and the unearthing of secrets long buried; “For concealing truths, out of some foolish notion of pride or honour, so as not to harm the feelings of others… it is an evil I will not abide, from others. I would be the worst kind of hypocrite if I then behaved so myself.”

Mother did not deny her words, eyeing Sansa with a glimmer of slow-forming, grudging respect. She seemed to agree with Sansa’s words and ideals, merely wishing that it was not her own family currently being held to account. At length, her mother sighed wearily, and reached down to press her soft palm against Sansa’s cool cheek.

“Oh, my girl,” she whispered, “Long I laboured, to bring you into this world. You have been a joy to me every moment hence. Lately, I felt you slip from my influence, like water seeping through the cracks between stones, and I feared what would become of you.”

Sansa waited impatiently, a heavy stone where her stomach should have been. Was Mother about to give her up, disown her entirely? Or was she working her way toward acceptance and forgiveness? She pressed her hand atop her mother’s; anchoring them together in a step toward harmony.

“You have never been a cruel, malicious girl. I do believe you, when you claim to have wished to spare me this pain.” Mother admitted, but her words were too joyless to inspire much hope in Sansa.

Doubtless, Catelyn Stark could still devise other reasons to doubt her daughter. Still, Sansa nodded, to show she was listening and had understood. Meanwhile, Rickon tipped over a row of thin blocks, blissfully unaware of the importance of the conversation happening at his back. Gradually, Sansa prised her mother’s hand from her delicate face, taking hold of the appendage in her own, until their hands lay entwined across Mother’s lap.

“If that boy were here, I might have suspected some manipulation on his part, to turn you against me, and my House.” Mother finally said, softly, with a small grimace. “That, I could have at least understood.”

Whether her expression was due to the reminder of Jon’s existence, or the proof of her own prejudice, Sansa did not know. She knew better than to enquire. She had already pushed Mother past the limits of her patience, quite enough for one moon.

Sansa knew that she must work on Mother moving toward acceptance of Jon, if they were ever to be close again. But all must come at its proper time; after all the sweet lies Sansa had fed her parents, she knew they would not trust her again until she could demonstrate a great force of character, and a willingness to accept their authority. So she said nothing, allowing her Mother the space to breath and consider her thoughts before speaking.

“But to accuse your own blood of such base treachery... can you really blame me, if I do not condemn my sister on the word of your dreams?” Mother pleaded softly, “I know you truly believe them to be true. I do not doubt that. But you ask me to trust the in same, Sansa, and how can I? When you could so easily be mistaken?”

“I would never ask that of you, Mother,” Sansa denied quickly, with a shake of her heavy head. “I only ask that you open your mind to the possibility, despite how awful it is.”

Catelyn shook her head in denial, but Sansa had found a crack in her defences, and fully intended to chip away at it.

“I only beg that you do not undertake any rash action, which cannot easily be undone, until I can prove to you what I claim is true.” Sansa asked, in a tone as deferential as she could manage.

Uncharacteristically, Mother let out a sarcastic snort of disbelief.

“You need not worry on that front, my dear,” she revealed, “Your Father has already seen to it. I am not sure have ever been more humiliated; he had ordered the guards to prevent me from leaving Winterfell, and Maester Luwin is not to bring me communications or send mine own, without Lord Stark reading them first.”

Then it was Sansa’s turn to wince, as she could see how mortified her mother must have felt, to be treated thus. Sansa herself did bear some blame for the order, which did not bode well for her attempt to win her mother over to their cause. Nethertheless, Sansa could not be sorry for it, if it prevented Mother from revealing their advantage to the enemy. Further than that, she was proud of Father for prudently implementing the necessary, if uncomfortable, order; even in spite of the fact it would no doubt inflict greater damage upon the relationship between man and wife. Evidently, it had done so, as Mother had never referred to her lord father as ‘Lord Stark’ in Sansa’s hearing before.

Once the floodgates had been opened, Mother found she could not stem the unwanted flow, and her tirade continued:

“As you know, we lately received news that my brother’s new wife was delivered of a girl babe. And I could not even congratulate them, without my husband pouring over my words and picking them apart for hidden secrets.” Lady Catelyn revealed miserably, “Can you begin to imagine how that feels? I have become a stranger to my own family. A prisoner in mine own home.”

Sansa felt as though her heart might break, so deep was the pain in Mother’s voice. She gripped her lady mother’s hand tightly, and promised it was not so.

“I am sorry for that Mother, truly I am.” she replied, “It was not my intention to lay an unsheathed sword between you and my lord father. Would that I could have revealed all- without causing you this pain.”

Mother sighed again, unshed tears sparkling in her lively blue eyes. Her jaw was set, resolved to show no more vulnerability to her unflowered daughter.

“We cannot undo what has been done.” Mother agreed, “Come now, let us have no more of this. I am done with this detestable pity for myself. Nan!”

With a great heave, Old Nan burst awake, blinking several times in quick succession, as though startled by the light. Her fingers twitched where they were still entangled in her knitting, but she quickly regained her equilibrium.

“Yes, my lady?” Old Nan asked placidly, just as though she had always been awake.

“Please take Minisa to her cot, and watch over Rickon. I will send a girl to attend upon him also. Sansa and I have somewhere we need to be.”

“Certainly, Lady Stark,” Old Nan agreed immediately, raising her ancient bones from the chair with the strength of a woman less than half her age. Her grip on the babe was just as sure, as she gathered the girl from her lady’s arms.

Sansa allowed her mother to lead the way from the nursery, both women pausing to bid good day to Rickon, before making their way swiftly through the passageway. Sansa assumed they were headed toward the Sept, and was surprised when Lady Catelyn veered to a sharp left, down a winding staircase to the lower levels, a route more commonly taken by the servants.

Hallis Mollen, who was still on duty outside the door to the great hall, quickly straightened from his bored slump at the sight of his lady. He said not a word, dutifully standing aside and opening the heavy door so that Sansa and her mother may enter the private meeting. Murmurings across the hall fell silent as they strode in, confident with their invitation and place. Mother had never looked more regal, a true Northern Queen, as she stood tall before the owlish gazes of her husband's bannermen and allies.

"Forgive my tardiness, my lords. My duties kept me from this vital meeting, their completion hastened with assistance from my dutiful daughter. I will promise not to waste much time catching up to the deliberations, if you will permit me." Her words were sweet like honeyed wine, only her firm tone revealed some of the bitter medicine concealed within.

"Certainly, Lady Stark," Roose Bolton was the first to reply; "And may I say, our tired eyes are much refreshed by your presence. We have been discussing Lord Stark's intention to host every lord in the North, and what can be gained from such gathering."

"I am much obliged to you, my lord," Catelyn Stark murmured, dropping into a shallow curtsy.

Calmly, she ascended the raised dias to take her seat beside her pleased husband. While Sansa did the same, at the opposite end of the table, casting a bright smile toward her own love, as Theon held out his hand for her to take. Steadying her, as Sansa settled back into her role as the premiere daughter of Winterfell.


	49. Ramsay II

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay smacked Myranda on her bare rump, delighting in the resulting jiggle of flesh as she bent over the edge of his bed, ferreting about looking for her dress. He had no desire to see her leave, he hadn't grown bored of her yet. He wanted to fuck some more, but authorities with more weight than him were preventing it this morn.

Lady Harlaw was hosting the morning meal in her rooms, and for some reason Ramsay was required to attend. He had tried to deny its importance to Myranda, who only bit his lips and scratched at his back. She knew better than to talk him out of anything, instead remaining silent as he moaned about the unwanted infringement on his private time. Father rarely wished to see him at meal times, or any other time, if he were to be honest about it. Why that should change just because his whore wanted to play the hostess of the castle, he didn't know.

In truth, Ramsay didn't entirely detest Gwynesse Harlaw. She didn't order him about imperiously like the petulant Wylla Manderly had, before she’d realised who he was. The Manderly wench looked down her nose at him because of his birth, but Lady Gwyn treated him much the same as his brother.

He arrived at her borrowed guest chambers, which were suspiciously close to the Lord’s rooms, in good stead. He was surprised to find himself the first person in attendance, though he supposed for the sake of appearance Father couldn't very well already be installed. There was no debate that they were definitely fucking though; Ramsay had heard he moans echoing from Father's rooms more than once. Lady Gwyn was probably old enough that Father didn't have to worry about begetting any more bastards.

Lady Gwyn greeted him warmly, as though he were a favoured pet, or a beloved step-son in truth. He allowed her to pour him tea before being surprised when she suggested they eat.

“Shouldn't we wait?” He said, picturing Father's face if he walked in on Ramsay devouring a plate of sausages and egg without his leave.

“In truth, no one else was invited,” replied Lady Gwyn, “I confess I wanted you all to myself.”

Ramsay raised an eyebrow at that, interested despite himself. Regardless of the lines on her face, Gwyn still had a fantastic pair of teats. He’d be happy to pillow his face on them.

The spread was good enough to distract him from all that however, and Ramsay took the opportunity to gore himself without fearing the consequences. Father would chastise him for truffling like a pig, and even Dom would frown if he ate too many sweetmeats or cakes. After a thoroughly satisfactory meal, Ramsay leaned back in his chair, resting his hands against his fatted stomach like a prize sow.

Gwyn hadn't bothered him with too many questions, but she had enquired after the quality of his sleep, and favoured activities. As though they were Southron fucks trilling over jam tarts in the rose garden. Ramsay found himself being honest, when she told him her nephew preferred the bow also, and asked which style he used. Ramsay was excellent at all forms of archery, and not afraid to tell her so.

They passed the time in pleasant quiet, and Ramsay found himself appreciating Gwyn’s ability to eat stoically without constant chatter. With the exception of Myranda, Ramsay found that women talked entirely too much about absolute nonsense. He endured many unpleasant feasts by whiling away the time envisaging himself plucking out the Manderly wench's tongue with hot pincers.

“And now we come to the real reason I have lured you here.” Gwyn said ominously, before wriggling her eyebrows at him mischievously. Ramsay wasn't sure he was up to fucking his father's mistress right then, having just scoffed a bellyful of food, but he vowed to give it a valiant attempt.

He tugged his jerkin off with quick, economical movements when she asked, but was surprised when she stopped him from unlacing his breeches. Instead of leading him into her bedchamber, Gwyn herded him to stand on a wooden block, before turning away to rummage through her chest. She made a noise of triumph when she emerged from the depths of the trunk with a thin length of rope, knotted at regular intervals. A seamstress’ rope.

Ramsay allowed her to move his arms about to measure his shoulders and chest, forearms and muscles. He’d never had a castle seamstress take such effort over him; they usually just adjusted Father and Dom’s cast-offs to outfit him in. Gwyn took careful measurements, recording the amount of knots required with sharp scribbles of a quill.

“I’ve not had a husband since Balon’s war, so I’m out of practice with men’s attire. Don't you doubt my skill with the needle though: been making dresses for my sister and me for most of my life.” She sniffed, “Not that it made much difference. Had no reason to bother with anything elaborate for years.”

There was a smirk about her lips at that, and Ramsay understood the implications. He wondered what kind of filthy, whorish low-cut dresses and sheer smallclothes she’d fashioned for his father’s pleasure.

“Can't have a specimen such as yourself going about in scuffed leathers,” she sniffed. “Greenlanders can be bizarre, in the way they treat their sons by any women save their wife.”

Ramsay shrugged. There was little he could do to change Father's behaviour toward him. He was mostly focused on taking in the way Gwyn's eyes had roved over his body when she’d named him a ‘specimen’.

“Won't need such a warm hood as your father though,” Gwyn mused, “must have gotten that thick head of hair from your mother, aye?”

Ramsay grinned broadly at that, delighted. It took a brave one to allude to Father's encroaching baldness. And he couldn't remember when anyone of high birth had ever made comments at Lord Bolton's expense purely for his amusement.

Myranda had laughed when he revealed his father's mistress absolutely wanted to fuck him, and was wooing him with new clothes. Dom screwed his eyes firmly shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, and walked away without a word.

 


	50. Sansa XXIV

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa observed the near-silent room with a critical eye. Since last she observed them the previous evening, very little had changed. Lord Cerwyn had rallied since Father’s public put down the night before, probably due to an equal show of deference toward him this morn. She crossed looks briefly with Lord Bolton, finding his lizard-cold eyes watching her, motionless and devoid of all feeling. Domeric Bolton sat steadfast at his father’s side, a silent sentinel.

The wild men had been afforded a bench of their own, and they sat hunched together, humourously visible in their dirty, makeshift furs. The Ironborn were their closest neighbours, no less savage despite their neatly-sewn boiled leather armour, and many weapons. The two factions, hailing from very different domains, glowered at one another menacingly. But if it were not for his clothes, and the well-crafted axe strapped to his waist, Victarion Greyjoy could easily have been mistaken for a wildling in certain instances, Sansa thought.

How strange it was to consider that these large, strapping men were enemies; when they shared so many qualities, and much joint heritage. Her own voice from years past rang out like a silver bell chiming in her mind;  _Cutting off heads is very satisfying, but that’s not the way you get people to work together._ No matter her personal feeling with regards to many of the men or families represented in this room, Sansa knew her past sentiment still held true. How else could she stomach working with the likes of savages, Ramsay Bolton or kinslayers such as the Sand Snakes?

They had once damned themselves in the eyes of gods and men, but not yet; and perhaps not ever in this life. Sansa would do her best to paint the truth of the situation; what they chose to do with that information was upon their own heads. They were free make their own choices, and if those choices conflicted with her own goals, or stood in her path, she would not hesitate to cut them down. Gone was the girl who wanted only sweet babes and a comely keep to decorate in the most lavish furnishings. Sansa had become a political creature, a spider weaving her threads and gorging herself on the fatted flies of opportunity that flew, unsuspecting, into her web.

While Sansa surveyed what form of web she had already spun, her parents controlled the hall, leading the discussion with patience and soft coaxing. Father had always been a clear-headed, reasonable man, careful and cautious, earning him the moniker of the Quiet Wolf. Mother complimented him perfectly, every inch a lady, sitting with poise and elegance, as she supported her husband’s views and offered infrequent suggestions of her own. Robb, Sansa and Theon were observers rather than active participants, unless called upon directly. Sansa deflected the most impertinent questions, though there were not many, due to her Father’s presence. She had an ominous feeling that she would not be afforded such courtesy in private, and resolved never to walk about the grounds alone. The cause could ill-afford the damage that would be caused, if she were cornered by a ruffian, and her parents discovered it. They would be forced to exact punishment on the incautious bannerman or guest, and Sansa knew it would breed resentment amongst their men.

“And so we are resolved, I hope, to adhere to the rules we have decided upon today.” Father began, his tired voice injected with new passion, that the close of the discussion was in sight. He stood straight-backed and stoic, the mantle of Lord Stark fixed firmly in place.

His voice when he spoke was lofty and deep, but without the arrogance that most men would have carried in his stead.

“I henceforth issue the following decrees,” Father began, “First; that no man nor woman shall draw a live weapon against another, unless in defence of another, or their own life. If they are the first to bare steel, bronze, iron or any other weapon, the punishment will be banishment to the Wall, or the Silent Sisters. The only exceptions being blunted weapons used for the purpose of training, or if they can prove they drew their weapon in defense against man or beast.”

Here, Lord Stark paused to wet his lips, glancing about the room swiftly, and seeing only solemn nods of agreement, continued; “Second, Maesters stationed in households across the North are invited to partake in a meeting with Lady Leaf, to ask their questions freely and make their own observations.”

Maester Luwin seemed to puff up proudly at this, and Sansa wondered how excited he was at the prospect to be the first man to question a Child of the Forest privately, at length.

“Third,” Father said robustly, seeming to draw strength from the approval of his lady wife, who was watching him with a proud smile upon her lips, “All enquiries about the Others, the Lands of Always Winter, the Wall or the History of the North are to be confined within the North, by rider not raven. And all households are to scour their library collections for any information, no matter how small, mystical or unreliable the source, to be shared with the collective.”

Sansa could not contain her broad smile, gratified that the need for research was being taken seriously. There possibility that many lost secrets lay within the walls of keeps and holdfasts all across the North was a likely one.

“Lastly, my eldest daughter is not to be approached regarding her visions, without my express permission, and none other.” Father said, his brow deeply furrowed, speaking of the retribution his mouth avoided, “Sansa will grant a private audience, with myself and those of my choosing also in attendance, only to those whose questions I deem relevant and appropriate. In my absence, permission will be granted, and the meeting overseen, by my son Robb.”

Robb flashed Sansa a broad grin of pure delight, to be public granted such a high authority and position of responsibility. Sansa was thrilled to hear she would be granted such immunity from myriad of inquiries brewing amongst the men and women in the room. But she wondered how it would be possible to enforce such a rule in truth. She supposed she would quickly find out. Honourable men would refrain from going against the word of their Lord Paramount, out of respect alone. Others would fear the consequences enough to be deterred. She had to believe that would cover the vast majority. Those left would feel the lash of her tongue before she ever gave them the answers they sought, if they tried to employ tactless, dishonourable methods to gain them.

Theon casually dropped his hand atop hers, where it was resting against the arm of her wooden chair. Sansa immediately turned her palm upward, so that their fingers could entwine, and he squeezed her hand in soft reassurance. His silent support was priceless to her, as she drew strength from his solid, dependable presence. Theon may have wavered a little when the revelations rocked him, but he had kept their quarrel private, and allowed her to make her explanations in private. For that, she was proud and grateful. Sansa doubted that most men would have behaved so rationally, given the same situation. Pride kept most of them from showing their true face in public, but most they did not expect the same was true of their womenfolk.

Father concluded the meeting by agreeing that all other decisions could be made during the Great Gathering of Northern Lords, as he termed it. The title sounded smart indeed to Sansa, who understood the value of a name. It had the useful quality of having a positive association with previous meetings. The Autumn Gathering was a festival to enjoy the last weeks of the harvest, a final celebration of summer living before the austerity of the hard years of winter set in. There had never been a Great Council in the North, as such a meeting was a Southron concept, reserved for special instances, to determine a ruler when the line of succession was in question. Still, the use of the word ‘great’ linked the concepts in men’s thoughts. Hopefully, the South would be dismissive of the meeting, despite the intrigue it was shrouded in, due to the name. Those that made further enquiries would not find their appetites whetted. Father had demanded the other Lords attend Winterfell under the guise of discussing preparations for Winter, which was not entirely fabrication. Hopefully, that would be enough to disinterest the likes of Baelish, who had ever been dismissive of caution and the North’s tendency to focus on home and hearth before pleasure and affectation. Sansa was counting on her own campaign of misinformation to do the rest.

*

The first to arrive were the Hornwoods, and their attendants. Bran spotted their rust-orange banners proudly fluttering in the wind first, from his place high atop the battlemens. No amount of scolding from their parents, Sansa nor Robb, could dissuade the little lordling from scaling the walls of Winterfell. Even his fear of Roose Bolton’s wrath did not prevent Bran from scrambling all over the walls of the Dreadfort, seeing the fearsome castle from angles never before observed by human eyes. Discovering hidden pockets and hiding spots unknown to all others. Sansa supposed that information may come of use in future years, though it would ease the ache in her heart if Bran found himself a less formidable interest.

Lord and Lady Hornwood were respectful, and elderly, being close to Father’s father age, were he alive. They had one child, a son and heir named Daryn, who was of an age with Domeric Bolton. Polite and deferential, Daryn Hornwood was handsomely formed, slender with a thick square jaw covered in thick black stubble. He was betrothed to Alys Karstark in Sansa’s previous life. But he had died fighting for Robb in the Battle of the Whispering Wood, before the marriage could take place. As yet, no formal betrothal had taken place between Sansa’s distant cousin and the young man, but Sansa had no objection to the match. She would do her utmost see it completed before Daryn ever rode to war again. Daryn had none but a baseborn brother, fostered in Deepwood Motte, and his father would die within the year, of old age. Leaving his mother the lone ruler of the Hornwood.

Donella Hornwood’s fate had been a horrific one. She had travelled to Winterfell to discuss the future of her House, and on the road home, she had been kidnapped by, and forcibly wed to, Ramsay Snow. He had raped her to consummate the marriage; then shut her in a tower and left her to starve to death. Styling himself as Lord Hornwood, until he was legitimised as a reward for his Father’s part in the Red Wedding.

Donella Hornwood’s ugly fate was a stab to Sansa’s fragile heart, as the kindly old lady greeted her with a gentle smile. Ramsay Snow was a monster, and every moment that he breathed was an affront to everything Sansa stood for.

But she had made a vow before the gods. The North must remain stable until the Night King was defeated, and nothing destabilized a kingdom more than a civil war. She could not move against Ramsay and risk rousing the suspicions of Domeric and Roose. Roose may not hold any genuine love for his baseborn son, but Domeric loved him deeply, and Roose’s pride would not allow him to stand aside and do nothing, if Domeric wished to avenge his death. Sansa had so many responsibilities, not the least of which was ensuring the entire North was equipped for Winter and willing to fight against the Others. She could not allow their loyalties to be divided, nor the honour of House Stark called into question.

But that did not make Sansa entirely powerless. If Ramsay’s crimes were brought to light, her lord father could lawfully execute him. Sansa knew most Houses were not as vengeful as the Lannisters, or Oberyn’s Sand Snakes. Northmen would accept an execution if it was warranted. House Bolton had enough ancient grudges against House Stark nursed at their breast; one more would be no issue. They would not move against their liege lords over the lawful death of a bastard, without the backing of a powerful ally. And if Sansa had played her pieces correctly, no one powerful enough would care about elevating House Bolton over House Stark. Not unless her family offended another Lord Paramount or King Robert himself. And while Lord Eddard Stark breathed, Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn would defend him with the full force of their armies. Sansa had faith at least in that.

She was determined to being about an end to Ramsay Snow’s tyranny, one way or another. Domeric had granted him a reprieve. But the risk of Ramsay harming the North through his idiocy and malice, was simply too great for her to allow him to live.

*

Arya was refusing to speak to Sansa, furious that no one would answer her abundance of questions. Robb was receiving the same punishment, condemned for the same crime. Bran had been spared this treatment from their sister, since he too had no idea as to the nature of the discussions held outside his presence. The two of them had kindled a greater friendship due to this joint hardship, and had taken to stomping about Winterfell in cahoots. Rickon constantly toddling after them, thrilled that Bran had come home. Sansa could do little more than hide her smiles behind her hands, whenever she caught sight of her grumpy siblings, so innocent and cross. Whenever Arya was out of sight, Bran would consent to speak to her again, extolling their adventures, his duties for Domeric, and the sights he had seem from the crenellations.

Robb’s lessons seemed to have doubled overnight, and he spent hours a day shut up with Maester Luwin, pouring over dusty, half-forgotten tomes. He was accompanied by Domeric Bolton, Daryn Hornwood and Cley Cerwyn, all heirs to important Northern Houses. When Sansa inquired as to why Theon was only asked to attend some of these lessons, the answer her Father provided was not a satisfactory one. He claimed that Theon’s lessons in Ironborn ways, shared between Victarion Greyjoy and Gwynesse Harlaw, were more valuable.

“If he is to be their ruler someday, he must have a deep understanding of his heritage, Sansa. Lady Gwyn has convinced me they will not accept him, otherwise.” Father revealed, in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

Lips pursed, the very image of her mother, though she could no know it, Sansa gave her silent, if displeased, consent to bow to her father’s authority.

Sansa had spent the interim days in a cloud of detachment. Father had assigned Hallis Mollen and Lyonel Norrey as her personal guards, the two men taking turns to guard her, day and night. It made snatching a moment alone with Theon difficult, though the two men always kept a respectful distance back when Sansa was stationary. No one had approached her unwisely, though Sansa had glimpsed many sneaking looks. Beth Cassel was suddenly nowhere to be found, but Jeyne Poole had rallied to Sansa’s side when called, and since her siblings were now either too busy or too reluctant to keep her company, Sansa was especially grateful for her friend.

Jeyne thought it thrilling indeed that Sansa had been assigned guards for protection.

“Just like the Queen and Princess Mrycella are followed by the Kingsguard,” Jeyne sighed happily over the romantic notion. “Shouldn’t you have liked to marry a Prince, and be a Princess? You would have been a splendid Princess, Sansa.”

Sansa smiled, replying without verbal comment, knowing her naive friend meant only well.

“Oh, please don’t mistake me, Sansa!” Jeyne clarified, “I am so happy for you, being betrothed to Lord Theon, who is very handsome, and will be a Lord Paramount someday. But the Iron Islands don’t have tourneys…. Or grand dances, and you do so love to dance.”

“When Theon is Lord, he will host many dances for me. Perhaps you can come with me to Pyke, as my handmaiden. We will wear matching dresses of black and gold, and dance until our slippers fall to pieces,” Sansa suggested, her gentle voice weaving a lovely dream.

“That would be very fine indeed,” Jeyne sighed wistfully, basking the image for a long moment, “I should like that very much, Sansa. I hope Father will allow it. He would if you asked, I know it.”

“If you wish it, I will do everything I can to make it so,” Sansa promised, giving Jeyne’s hand a gentle squeeze. She felt as though she had stepped into Margaery Tyrell’s slippers, promising her friend an escape from the castle.

Poor Jeyne had no idea how wonderful this dreary, often drab castle truly was, having no golden-gilt prison to compare it to.  _And she never will,_ Sansa vowed.  _Let her keep her dreams. I will see her married to a good man who will protect her, and the likes of Baelish will never get his hooks into her._

Before long, another day of waiting for their guests was drawing to a close. Mother brushed out Sansa’s hair, resolved to act as though nothing was amiss, avoiding the topic of her Tully family entirely. Sansa, having no desire to open old wounds, let the matter lie for now. It would need to be revisited, but not yet, and perhaps not without Father present.

Sansa knew better than to pull a bowstring too far, lest it snap apart in her grip.


	51. Gendry II

THE INTREPID TRAVELLER

It took him several moons to work up the courage to confront Lord Stark about his misgivings, but Gendry was not a reticent man by nature. Still, he did not have much experience talking to great lords; Robb and the others were children, and would surely grow more aloof with time. But the adult lords and ladies of Lord Stark’s court gave him a wide berth unless they needed some work done, and even then Mikken was the one to deal with them. Save for his lessons with Maester Luwin, Gendry had little reason to cross paths with adult highfolk. And when he did, they were polite but distant. Less abrupt than Southern manners dictated, but not overly familiar neither.

But he could bite his tongue no longer. Gendry had requested an audience with Lord Stark, via the Maester. He asked if the lord of the North could spare a half hour to exchange words with him. Gendry expected to wait a sennight or more, but to his gratification, Lord Stark agreed to meet with him the very next day. It was just as well, that Gendry had been thinking on all he had to express, for almost three moons. Otherwise he might have been too nervous to say a word.

Lord Stark was as serious-faced as always, but Gendry had learnt not to be unnerved by that, knowing it was just his way. Lord Sark was more patient and not as gruff as most Northmen, and respected being treated in kind, Gendry had noticed. He was careful to speak slowly and respectfully, when he asked why the lord had seen fit to educate him above his station.

“Are you unhappy with your studies?” Lord Stark said, rather than answering him directly.

Gendry squirmed, embarrassed. In truth, he had been proud to learn the letters to spell out his own name, though it had highlighted his inadequacy at the same time. It was not for the likes of him to learn his letters in the first instance, however. Though he did not wish to cease his lessons, Gendry could not fathom why the old Maester had been asked to teach him warfare and other lordly things, while Ser Rodrik spared him a lesson in arms twice a week.

“No, m’lord,” he answered truthfully, “Your lordship has been most kind- most generous, for allowing me to be taught as such. But I confess I do not understand. Do you wish me to train as a master smith and teach others? I only ask so that I may better know what to learn.”

Lord Stark blinked at that, as though he had never considered the notion, but Gendry did not know him well and so must be incorrect, for why else would a lord waste such education on an apprentice smith? The lordly lessons in etiquette and trade must have been included to ensure he would not embarrass House Stark, if he were sent elsewhere to train other smiths.

“Gendry… tell me, what do you know of your father?”

Then it was Gendry’s turn to blink, as he considered the question.

“Nothing, m’lord. I never met or knew of him, and if my mother spoke of him I don’t remember it. I was a boy when she died.” he explained as quickly and painlessly as he could. In truth, he did not recall her face, but he remembered the sting of knowing he would never see her again.

“Your father is the reason why I took you in here.” Ned Stark admitted, and Gendry started at the revelation, sitting forward in his chair. 

"But that would mean... He's a Lord?"

Lord Stark looked strangely relieved at Gendry's words. Perhaps he had suspected Gendry too simple to work it out for himself.

"It was under orders that I dictated the method of your education, following the lessons that I gave my own son, Jon."

Privately, Gendry marvelled that had he never considered this before, that it has taken so long to fathom it out. That his father, were he a Lord, might have secured a position for him, if he had any sense of honour regarding the son he had helped create. He had always just thought of himself as a lowly bastard, fully of the smallfolk. But suddenly it all made sense. His father must have sponsored his apprenticeship with Tobho Mott, and sent him North to become a master smith. So he become a credit to his father's name, before he acknowledged him as a Waters.

It meant his father must be a serious sort of man, the kind who did not deal with wasterels. The type of man who would send his knights to do his bidding and check on his son's progress. Gendry thought of the letter he had carried all the way North, which he might be able to read now. But it was not necessary, because he knew the unbroken seal he had looked upon and run curious fingers across repeatedly.

Lord Stannis Baratheon had a reputation as a hardened, brittle sort of man, who would have starved to death rather than surrender his keep. Everyone knew he only had one daughter blighted by greyscale, and no other heir. It made sense that a man in such a position would take an interest in his bastard.

 _I have a half-sister,_ Gendry thought, testing out the sound of the words, finding that he rather liked them. He wondered if Lord Baratheon had passed down any of that famous fortitude down to his children, and if it would stand him in good stead, when the King's party arrived. _My uncle, the King_ he realised, shaking his head in disbelief, but more interested in putting his new skills to good use; to read up on the dramatic feats of his father.


	52. Tormund

THE UNDOMESTICATED TRAVELLER

The little wench was following him. He could not prove it, for she was a wiley one, but he could sense her witchy-warg eyes on him, roving over him as he moved. He worked to catch her in the act, wanting to demand that she stopped, but kneelers were unpredictable. So many rules and laws and other nonsense to keep most men down and raise a few undeserving men high because their grandmother fucked the right man. Tormund didn't want to break some vital law or do anything unaccountably offensive and find himself short a head for pissing off the wrong kneeler.

Some of these so called Northmen, most of whom had never been to the truth North, were lucky like him. Kissed by fire, and more beautiful than both of his daughters, even the boys. The lad he was supposed to befriend had not yet appeared, but the Child had insisted he would return to the shores of their land soon enough.

Before then, Tormund intended on garnering a moment alone with the Seer. Gaining answers of his own, away from the prying eyes of her family, and the other nosy Free Folk. He desired to know what life held in store for him, beyond the friendship of some kneeler whelp. He wanted to know if the large, tough woman with a bear on her dress would consent to create some little cubs with him, to begin with. Then he would consider some questions on the fate of them all. He did not think the girl would dance away from him, as she had with others who tried to ask her too many questions.

She had said his name with great enthusiasm at the feast, a bright smile on her face. Doubtless she had lied about barely knowing him from her visions. She knew him, and he wanted to know just how well.


	53. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stars, hide your fires;_  
>  _Let not light see my black and deep desires._  
>  -Macbeth, William Shakespeare

THE HALLOWED TRAVELLER

Her eyes were mesmerizing, even under the cover of darkness. He wanted to deny her claims; wanted his thoughts and dreams free from her image and bewitching words, yet even as he ruminated on how to achieve it, he knew it to be a self-delusion. He was rapidly becoming obsessed with the red woman and her seductive, tempting form. Was this what his father had felt for his mother? This irrepressable pull toward her to lose himself in base, animalistic urges, that the loss of his honour and virtue seemed inevitable? When Jon eventually worked up the nerve to ask Vaaro if the Red preachers took vows of chastity, when they joined the Order, the older man saw through him immediately.

"She is not for you, Jon," Vaaro said seriously, firm in his denial, "their loyalty to their god is absolute; she will never forsake her fire lord for a husband and children. At most, she will lie with you to birth terrible shadow demons. And when she takes your seed, she'll take your soul."

That had sounded like irrational superstitious nonsense to Jon; but then the ways of the Asshai'i were shrouded in mystery, and blood-thirsty notions. Yet Jon could not stop thinking of her; despite the supposed danger, and the uncouth manner in which he pictured her, in the darkest of his wanton dreams. In the morn Jon blushed with shame, swearing that he would put her out of his mind, but each night he broke his vow once again. For her part, the Red Priestess did not allow herself to be easily forsaken; following Jon about whenever he alighted the ship. Claiming a great destiny was in store for him if he embraced her god. Her insidious whispers snaking into his ears to coil in his mind.

Her attention was not solely about conversion however; for the other men said they had never been persistently pursued, nor promised feats and achievements of note by the followers of R'hllor. Yet she dogged Jon's steps tirelessly, ceaseless in her mission to ensnare him.

"You cannot escape your fate," she purred, "The Lord of Light has chosen you as his champion, and you cannot run from your destiny, Jon Snow."

When at last they received their orders to set sail, Jon had to clamp down on his urge to tell her, nor plead; "Come with me." Deeply unnerved by his urge to promise her anything. Jon let out a sigh of relief when they at last lifted anchor, and beautiful Braavos began to drift from view.

His serenity lasted, like a petal floating on the breeze right up until the moment it was snatched from the air by jealous, grasping fingers; and the Priestess stepped out from the cabins below deck, pushing back her hood to grace him with her blood red smile.

 


	54. Davos

THE STAUNCH TRAVELLER

Lord Stannis did not wish to go North, but since Lord Jon Arryn had fled to the Eyrie, he had been forced to take up the mantel of acting Hand. Until Ned Stark could be persuaded to take up the position, if Jon refused to return to his appointed post. Stannis' choices were clear; he could remain in the Capital with Baelish and Varys, men he loathed and would fight him on any changes he attempted to implement, or go North and be reminded of his brother's affection for men not of his blood. In the end, he had chosen to remain at Court and run the Seven Kingdoms in a strict, lawful manner, the uncompromising nature of his person meaning his tenure was not likely to be forgotten in any hurry.

There suddenly seemed a lack of unsavoury characters in the streets, Stannis having swelled the ranks of the City Watch, who were now tarrying the local crooks. Corruption did not go unpunished, and men who consistently avoided taxes were suddenly finding all their debts called in at once. Stannis had forced Littlefinger to hand over the Crown's accounts, and had men of learning going over the numbers therein. He planned to call up another maester from the Citadel, as Pycelle had offended him one too many times, by using the infirmity of old age as an excuse to slow proceedings. Though Pycelle could not be forced out of his lifelong position, now his declarations would come under the scrutiny of another of his own order. A respected man, as Stannis had decided on a rider, not a raven: Davos was to set off three days hence. He had his orders to gain an archmaester no less, of at least fifty years. A man who could not be belittled due to lack of years or learning.

Other changes were more symbolic; there suddenly seemed a lack of lion motifs about the shared spaces of the Red Keep, decorative candles, ornaments, table coverings and metal fixtures which mysteriously disappeared, seemingly overnight. Along with the dismissal of palace guards with suspiciously Western-sounding names. The men publicly patrolling the palace were suddenly very much composed of Stormland, Crownland or even Dragonstone leniages, and Loras Tyrell had been dismissed from court, much to Lord Renly's ire.

Davos had to admit the pretty new turtle fixtures and decorations complemented the stags a lot more than the missing lions. The little Lady Shireen bounced around court, pleased as punch that her father had sent for her, bringing a smile to Davos' face daily, with her keen humour and kindly turn of phrase. If any of these changes held when the lion Queen returned to court, King's Landing would be a far more pleasant place to be.


	55. Wylla II

THE LONELY TRAVELLER

She could not understand it. Dom had been so warm to her at the start of their courtship and marriage, but since they had settled into the Dreadfort, his countenance had turned more severe, his smiles less broad or frequent. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the company of his bastard brother, an uncouth, vile man, so that she could barely gain a moment alone with him in the daytime.

Ramsay's crude mistress did not seem to mind their close, dependant relationship, not even when the two men shared a bed. Wylla could not fathom it, and had begun to suspect that something untoward was between the brothers, some unnatural affection that they used their women to detract from. She never caught them in a carnal embrace, but Wylla still dreaded the possibility of it happening someday. How would she react to confirmation of her dark suspicions? What could she say to break up such a foul union?

When she had haltingly explained her fears to Roose, trying to gather some information and reassurance, he had almost laughed at her fumbled explainations, sneering snidely when she pressed the issue. Domeric and Ramsay were a coven of two, occasionally joined by Ramsay's horrid friends. Roose had coldly informed her that if she could not hold his son's interest, it was entirely her own fault. He flatly denied her request to send Ramsay away, inferring she would not like to deal with Domeric's reaction if he even tried.

But Wylla was not completely starved of Domeric's company, for he came frequently enough to her bed that she swelled with child before the year was through. Dom at least was thrilled with that news, and she hoped it would be enough to remind him of the affection which had once been fresh and warm betwixt them. But her excitement was short-lived, as he showed no intention of reducing the amount of time he doted on his brother. In a manner that was almost paternal, once motherhood was on her mind enough that she could see their bond more clearly through the new lense.


	56. Jon III

Jon lay in the heart of the hull, cresting on the horizon of sleep, riding on the wings of a giant raven: coal-black and almost invisible against the starless sky. The bird was strangely smooth; with hard, small feathers, completely flat and radiating an inner warmth. Together they dipped and glided across the warm air currents, man and beast taut together, seamlessly joined as though they shared one flesh. Jon tasted the bitter clouds, inhaling a lungful of ash, feeling the whisper of promises brush past his frigid cheek, and awoke with a loud gasp. The dream clutched at him with bloody claws, refusing to be shaken until his wide eyes finally adjusted to the gloom.

The air below deck was warm with the breath of fifty men, reeking of foreign produce and spices. When he licked his lips, Jon tasted the ever-present tang of salt. Unbidden and unnerved, he carefully picked his way across his slumbering shipmates, Ghost-quiet. Bloody eyes stared balefully at his retreating back, his wolf regarding him with resignation. Jon made his way unhindered to the top deck, a spectre of snow and shadow.

He was not surprised to find the Lady Melisandre, tall and still against a sky of burning stars and thick, quickly-moving, discernable clouds. She was clad in a scarlet dress with a deeply plunging neckline. Her delicate fingers rested on the paint-chipped wood of the ship, two pale spiders, poised to snap it in twain. Jon approached her cautiously, dragged ever forward by some bloodthirsty compulsion to see her face. The bare moonlight cast it into sharp relief, the heart shape distorted by the ripple of her dark hair.

In the pounding silence of the dead of night, the crack of sails against the wind became the boom of a whip; and the burbling water lapping incessantly at the hull, the death throes of a beast with a torn throat, drowning in its own blood. Heat radiated out from every direction, even the vast heavens above, pregnant with malice.

Despite the presence of the night-watchmen, they were alone; two islands, black and red, separated by shadows. At last, she turned from the endless dark ocean to favour Jon with her smouldering smirk of a smile; a dangerous red wound across her face.

“Tell me, Jon Snow,” She purred seductively, “Why do you drink from the sea?”

Jon stared at her in dumb confusion, his jaw working uselessly, as his brow furrowed into a frown. He considered the possibility that he was still dreaming.

“I don’t,” he denied, with the hurt tone of the falsely accused.

Lady Melisandre’s eyes were maroon in the night, the colour of dried, flaking blood. Jon shivered, suddenly cold in his thick woolen shirt, despite the heat of the wooden planks beneath his feet, which had been soaking up the sun all day for weeks.

“I have seen you,” she countered, “Making your oaths to false gods, pledging fealty to trees.”

Jon pouted, immediately offended, “I follow the gods of my Father, and his Father before him. We keep to the old gods in the North. Our blood is the blood of the First Men.”

Her smile only grew more indulgent, as though Jon were a babe insistent on staying awake, despite their drooping eyelids and lagging limbs.

“There is only one god, Jon Snow,” she swore, “the Lord of Light, who made all men, and his cup is the only succour. To drink from any other is to swallow poison, surely as if you gorged upon salty sea water.”

The hair on the back of Jon’s neck rose, as the fervour in her eyes grew into a roaring flame. Involuntarily, he stook a swift step back.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Jon Snow,” she whispered, her pert breasts held high by her revealing dress.

Jon wanted to reach out and caress her flesh, to slip his hand below the edge of the fabric to cup one bosom, to feel the nipple harden at his pinch. Would she continue to smile indulgently at him then? Or hiss, whimper and squirm away?

He had striven to prove his blood was not tainted, despite being born from virtueless lust. He would not debase himself. Jon would not break that vow; he would not give Lady Catelyn the satisfaction. But even if she never found out, he would know, and that would be punishment enough. Jon clenched his hands into fists, to better hide the tremours running through them, shaken by his impure thoughts.

“I’m not so sure,” Jon replied quietly, thinking how easy this woman aroused him, how quick his honour fell by the wayside just at the sight of her. “I only know you have confused me with someone else, my lady. Some valiant knight or lord. I’m half baseborn. A bastard.”

He swallowed thickly, the words still painful on his tongue despite all the years he had heard them. 

“Your blood is noble,” Lady Melisandre insisted, her milk-pale bosom heaving with every fevered breath, “You are the Prince who was Promised, the Lord’s champion. You do not see it yet, Jon Snow, but you will. You will save us all.”

Leery, Jon skittered away, back down to his hammock, the thump of his blood thundering in his ears.

Lady Melisandre may be a rare beauty, any man could attest to that. Even her voice was lovely. But Vaaro was right; that seductive beauty was tainted by her zealotry, and the two could not be separated. Jon would be a fool to believe anything different.

 _I am no hero,_ he thought, _I am just a man, consumed with the sins of the flesh, just like any other._


	57. Sansa XXV

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Oberyn Martell was watching her. Sansa pretended not to notice him, kneeling as she was before the heart tree. Only a very disrespectful man would disturb her at prayer, and she knew Oberyn to be a more cunning man than that. Sansa knew he had questions for her, since it was now evident that she was the most likely candidate for being the ‘Red wolf’. She had hidden behind her brother’s matching hair colour, but with Leaf’s false revelations, Sansa knew it was glaringly obvious she was the writer in question.

She wondered how much longer his patience would last, or if he would request an audience with her via her father. The fact that he had not already done so told her how enthusiastic Oberyn was of Ned Stark sitting in on their conversation.

 _He does not trust my father yet, because of his ties to Robert Baratheon,_ she thought.

At long last, when she could no longer feign dedication to the gods, Sansa clambered to her feet, brushing dirt and leaf litter from her skirts. She met two liquid black eyes, carefully assessing her every move. Wondering if she was skittish Northern flower, apt to run from him, or a girl more akin to his daughters, prepared to stand and fight.

Hallis Mollen was waiting for her at the same entrance to the godswood she had walked to the heart tree from. She had begged for a moment alone with the gods, claiming that none would dare to harm her before them. She hoped it was true, but knew how volatile Oberyn could be in regards to his sister’s honour. She wondered if he wished to revenge himself upon House Stark, for hiding the babe Rhaegar had disgraced Elia in order to gain.

Sansa approached the Dornish lord, a man far taller than her due to her young, girlish form. Her chin was held high, channeling all she had learnt from Cersei on how to stand among men and command them.

“Prince Oberyn, you have questions for me.” she stated, prim and orderly, placing her hands neatly on the lip where her skirt met the bodice of her dress.

“Indeed I do, Lady Sansa,” he replied, equally quietly.

Somewhere nearby, a raven cawed, a warning to be cautious, for they were in a very public place, and could not afford to be spotted speaking alone.

“Not here,” she whispered, eyes intently shining through the early afternoon gloom.

The sky was covered with thick gray clouds, casting a shady pall over them both, drawing long shadows from the stems of each tree branch.

“Do you know which of these towers is named for my brother?” she asked.

Terse, Oberyn nodded once, sharp and serious, patiently waiting for her to continue.

“Join me there tonight, one hour after dinner concludes.” Sansa demanded, “We will speak this night, and this night only. Come alone, and bring all your questions, for I will not flaut my Father’s ruling again for you.”

Oberyn offered her a deep bow, mayhaps recognising the dangerous situation she was putting herself in.

Sansa said nothing more, drawing up her hood and marching along the dirt track that passed for a path through the godswood, back to safety.

*

“Absolutely not, Sansa,” Theon hissed, when she told him of the plan, “Your Father might actually take the lash to me, if he discovers I have allowed you to do this.”

“We are not wed Theon,” she reminded him, “You do not allow me anything, yet. I am resolved to undertake a conversation which cannot be put off any longer, and I would have you with me.”

Theon frowned, utterly unconvinced. They were in the glass gardens, Theon seated on the low wooden bench while Sansa carefully pruned a holly bush.

“I don’t like it,” he insisted, “The Dornish are bloody crazy, Sansa.”

Sansa grinned up at him teasingly; “And the Ironborn are all pirate savages, apparently.”

Theon glared at her, unamused. Sighing heavily, Sansa set down her small pruning clippers.

“Theon, dearest,” she began, “If you won’t accompany me, I shall be forced to ask Robb. He will tell Father, and then we will all be in trouble, when Father throws the Martells out of Winterfell for defying the decree he  _just_ issued.”

Theon folded his arms, pouting, but Sansa could see that she had convinced him, and smiled to herself as she returned to her work. But she didn’t get long to enjoy it, as Bran came rushing toward them, hopping with excitement.

“The Manderlys are coming!” he shrieked, “Sansa, Sansa- the outrider says Jon is with them!”

Dropping her clippers, Sansa sprung to her feet.

“Are you certain?” she asked, but Bran was already rushing off, screaming for Arya.

Thrilled, Sansa shared every ounce of Bran's joy. She threw her most winning smile at Theon, who was blinking in surprise, wringing out his ear to clear it of Bran’s high-pitched yelling. She took hold of his arm, and together they made their way to the courtyard.

Arya and Nymeria were already there, her sister hopping from one foot to the other in nervous energy.

“Do you think it’s really true?” she demanded as soon as Sansa was in sight.

Sansa shrugged, unable to say, but her heart soared and she knew it must be true. Father had told the Manderlys to delay setting off until Jon returned, but he had granted them leave to march to Winterfell without him, if they risked arriving too late.

Bran came skidding toward them, Summer hot on his heels, Robb and Rickon in tow. Their youngest brother was seated on the eldest's shoulders, kneading and tugging on Robb’s hair in excitement. Robb winced at a sharp pull, reaching up to untangle Rickon’s fingers from his curls. From thereon holding onto his tiny hands, instead of letting them wander free.

The wait seemed unfathomably long, but at last the men in Manderly green began to stream through the gatehouse, followed by a familiar rider clad in dark blue and the fox-fur maroon cloak Sansa herself had made.

“Jon!” yelled Arya, rushing forward. Sansa caught hold of her arm before her little sister could get herself trampled by a horse in her enthusiasm.

Jon leapt down from his palfrey confidently, a broad smile on his face. He was bronzed by the sun, his hair cut shorter than Sansa had seen it in years. Ghost trotted up beside him, proud and regal, his gleaming fur silky and bright. Sansa released her hold on Arya then, and their sister raced forward to leap into Jon’s waiting arms. She hung about his neck like a babe, and Jon pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her tight. Once, Sansa had done so herself, and it warmed her heart to see her sister able to do the exact same, in far less woeful circumstances.

As Arya slid gracelessly down to stand on her own feet, the Stark children and Theon crowded round Jon, not waiting their turn, but instead crushing their wayfaring brother with a many-armed embrace, until Jon was laughing, smothered by affection. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw the Manderlys watching in confusion as the bastard of Winterfell was welcomed home with such genuine love, and a distinct lack of courtly decorum.

From somewhere behind them, Sansa heard Mother clear her throat in disapproval. But Sansa ignored it, too busy reassuring herself that Jon was safe and whole. He had managed to travel all the way to Essos and back without being set upon or engaging in battle with anyone, and for a Stark, that was very rare indeed. Eventually though, they began to wriggle apart, and Sansa stepped back, still beaming, radiant with happiness. Somehow, Rickon had succeeded in crawling from atop Robb’s shoulders into Jon’s arms, and he wriggled about, getting comfortable, hitched atop Jon’s hip. Thus, Jon gave their Father an awkward shallow bow, having to compensate for Rickon’s weight.

“Welcome home, Jon,” said Father, “And welcome to Winterfell, my lords. My steward, Vayon, shall show you to your rooms in the guest house. I’m afraid I must apologise, but some of your household will have to be housed in Winter Town, for Winterfell is almost at full capacity. I’m sure you understand this is meant as no insult.”

“Indeed, it’s entirely understandable, Lord Stark,” said a robust man, that Sansa knew to be Lord Manderly’s eldest son and heir, “We are most honoured to be here, at this grand occasion for the North, and take no umbridge.”

Sansa could see Wylla hovering behind Vayon Poole, and when he began to lead the Manderly household away, she hurried to greet her father and sister, to eagerly catch up. Sansa assumed they would all begin to filter indoors after them. But her breath caught when she turned back to Jon, to find a familiar, eerie shade from the past was approaching him.

Though she appeared somehow younger than Sansa had ever seen her, her burning red eyes and dangerous smile were unmistakable. Sansa's breath caught in her throat, and she was motionless, transfixed. Utterly unable to understand how such a change could have occurred. How was it possible that she, of all people, could be here?

Jon gave them an awkward smile when the Red Priestess stood beside him, resplendent in her blood-coloured dress. Even with no furs to keep out the chill, she seemed perfectly at ease, elegant and poised.

“Lord Stark, may I present-”

“Lady Melisandre of Asshai,” Sansa finished, quite unable to help herself.

Jon frowned deeply, turning to look at her in disbelief.

“Aye,” he said, “But how did you know? I never even mentioned her name in my letters.”

Theon clapped him on the shoulder, in an effort to make light of the situation.

“A lot of odd things have happened since you’ve been gone, mate. Best not to question it all too closely, lest you start to go mad,” Theon advised firmly, his eyes flickering meaningfully toward the myriad of strangers milling about in the courtyard, untying packs from the horses and leading them to the stables.

Jon swallowed, eyeing Sansa suspiciously. But she was too busy meeting the burning red gaze of the Lord of Light’s most ardent follower, to take any note. The red woman met Sansa's perplexed look with a steady, confident countenance.

Father cleared his throat to dispel the awkward atmosphere.

“Asshai is a very long distance away, my lady,” he said, “How did your travels being you to our home?”

“I go where the Lord commands,” Melisandre announced, as zealous as Sansa had ever heard her.

“Which Lord?” Father repeated, baffled.

Melisandre’s smile became condescending, as she surveyed the unbelievers before her. “The Lord of Light. The one true god to whom we all owe allegiance.”

“Lady Melisandre is a Priestess of the Red Order,” Jon added sheepishly.

“Indeed?” said Father, unimpressed. “I am sorry you have travelled so far, only to be disappointed my lady. But Winterfell is almost entirely full, due to a gathering between my lords. I cannot rightly turf any loyal bannerman from his rooms, for an unanticipated guest. But there are many places to find lodging in Winter Town-”

“Lady Melisandre can stay in Robb’s Tower,” Sansa blurted, before she had rightly thought it through.

Father gaped at her, horrified that Sansa would invite a guest to remain in his castle, that he obviously did not welcome the presence of. Beside Robb, Theon was staring at her as though Sansa had lost her head. She supposed she must have, when she remembered she had asked Oberyn Martell to meet her in that very same place, only a few hours past. Sansa swallowed thickly, unable to take back the invitation now that it had been spoken.

“With my lord father’s permission, naturally,” Sansa finished lamely, wincing.

Father sighed, supremely irritated with his trying children, whom he could do nothing but continue to love and protect.

“Lady Melisandre, should you prefer, there is a spare room in… Robb’s Tower.” said Lord Stark, “It is to be the wedded chambers of my daughter Sansa and her husband-to-be, Theon. Sansa who so generously offers it has the keys. I am sure she would be glad to lead you there.”

Lady Melisandre curtseyed deeply, revealing much of her pale decolletage, much to Mother’s disapproval. Sansa saw her wince as the strange, foreign Priestess accepted their hospitality. Hallis followed at a distance, as Sansa lead their new guest to Robb’s Tower, pulling the key from beneath her dress, where she kept it on a chain about her neck.

“Robb is the name of your brother, is it not?” Melisandre asked, bestowing Sansa with a gentler, less seductive smile than the ones she had flashed about the courtyard in front of the men.

“Yes,” Sansa replied, “Robb oversaw the extensive repairs this tower needed, to be habitable again. So it was named for him.”

“How industrious,” Melisandre purred, as Sansa unlocked the door to the ground level, wondering how she was going to sneak Oberyn past cunning Melisandre, when night fell.


	58. Ramsay III

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Dom's new bride was a bitch, and he wanted to kill her. It would be so easy. Dosing her watered-down wine so that she would stumble on the steep, worn-smooth steps and slide down to break her neck. No one would ever know about the helping had he intended to give her. Or he could dose _Dom's_ wine, so that his brother slept heavily, while Ramsay stole into his wife's room and smothered Wylla with a pillow.

He would prefer to do the work with his bare hands, or else his favourite knife. But the aforementioned methods were the only two he could think of where an accident or natural ailment would be proclaimed the cause of her death. Unfortunately, Wylla had just announced she was with child, and Dom was so pleased that Ramsay knew Dom would not forgive him, if he disposed of her before the babe made an appearance.

With any luck, Wylla would consent to be weak enough to die in childbirth, providing Dom with his precious heir, and saving Ramsay the chore of killing her. If the child was a boy, Dom would not need to invite any other stone-faced bitches to live with them, and all would return to how it should be. He grumbled out his hopes to Myranda, who saucily slid her naked body atop him, and told him he was plainly jealous.

"Lack of a woman to fuck wouldn't make Dom any more willing to fuck you," she teased, biting at one of his nipples, while Ramsay scrunched up his brow in distaste.

"I don't want my brother to fuck me," he protested, immediately defensive.

Myranda giggled, beginning to slither down his body, pressing kisses and sharp nips to the plains of his neatly defined chest.

"Are you sure?" she pressed, taking his cock into her smooth, delicate hand, beginning to tempt him into deliciously dark thoughts.

Ramsay thought on it seriously for a moment, considering the scenario in his mind, as she squeezed and manipulated him, sliding her fingers down his slick flesh with her firm grip. Would he lie back like this with Dom looming over him? Content to let his big brother manhandle him? Surely not. They were too competitive.

Dom was a handsome man, with pretty long lashes, and a sweet face with a thick head of curls, like a girl. There was no denying the bond between them was strong; they'd be affectionate with each other. Ramsay had never considered Dom an object of lust, but he could see why others might. The idea of laying with Dom was strangely un-repulsive, despite their shared blood.

Dom would want to kiss, he was certain. He frequently pressed firm kisses to Ramsay's forehead; his lips were soft and strong. He'd want to dominate, press Ramsay back into the featherbed, and Ramsay would relish wrestling control away from him.

"I don't want my brother to fuck me," Ramsay repeated, copying Myranda's turn of phrase as he mulled over the idea, "But perhaps I wouldn't mind fucking him."

Delighted by the admission, Myranda laughed again, and gave him a strong squeeze, before sliding her hand beneath his cock to fondle his aching balls. Would Dom be as careful? Or more rough and rugged, manly in all action he took?

"Filthy scoundrel," his lover trilled, finally shimmying down the length of him, to take his dick into her soft mouth.

Ramsay tangled his fingers into her thick, chestnut-brown hair, as she began to suck him in earnest. Everything about her was so delectable and seductive, from the scent of her hair to the sheen of spittle on her rosy lips as she tongued the slit. For the first time, Ramsay wondered if the satisfaction he felt with her, and their stellar fucking, was love. He could tell her anything, no matter how vile or taboo, and she would approve so long as it pleased him. She was dependable, and all his. He didn't have to share Myranda with snobby little mermaids at least.

But now that the thought of Dom in his bed had entered his mind, it wouldn't easily leave. He pictured Dom with them now; he would settle on the bed beside Ramsay and press kisses to the tender spot behind his ear, breath hot on his neck as Ramsay began to fondle his ample dick. They'd embrace and kiss properly, and Dom would be gentle and loving the entire time, ever the chivalrous knight. He'd not tease and play like Myranda, he'd bring Ramsay off with determination and skill. Between the two of them, Ramsay would melt with satisfaction, appreciated and adored, in a way he never was in public.

Ramsay found satisfaction that night with Myranda's lips around his dick and the ghost of Dom's lips upon his neck. It would be years before he realised that it was not so much his brother that thrilled him, but the thought of a gentle man.


	59. Damon

THE PAEGNIARIUS TRAVELLER

They had the run of the castle while the lord and the heir were gone. Though not officially in charge- that was Maester Wolkan’s job as appointed castellan- no Bolton man was foolish enough to ignore Ramsay’s requests. He sat in the place of honour at the top table- Dom’s usual seat, quaffing ale and devouring chicken legs at a relentless pace. His bitches spread themselves across the well-insulated room, lolling in the warmth near the hearth, accustomed as they were to the drafts of the kennels.

Myranda was bold enough to flop herself into Ramsay’s lap, dressed in deep shades of pink, close to true Bolton colours, with leathers and silks of complementary wine-stain purple. Roose Bolton would probably have had her whipped for taking such liberties with her betters, but then, no one would dare tell Roose. Myranda was Ramsay’s favourite, the closest thing he would probably ever have to a wife, and he was jealous with his toys. The boys all knew better than to try it on with her.

Not that Damon was interested. Too much like her master, that one; madness ran thick in her veins. Some of the jollity was an act, no doubt; Myranda took less joy in inflicting pain when Ramsay wasn’t there to impress. She loved him; deeply and truly enough to feign anything, so long as Ramsay returned her affection, as much as he was able. A black heart like Ramsay’s only had so much room for genuine affection. Ramsay probably wasn’t capable of loving more than one thing at a time, and he loved his brother too much for there to be any space left.

Tansy was more his flavour of girl. Terrified of Ramsay, she covered it well, simpering and smiling when it was necessary. Damon enjoyed watching her when their masters- both of them, for every man Ramsay befriended was forced to report to Roose directly, on his son’s conduct- were not present to encourage her to be false. When Tansy was her private, honest self, she was sweet and bright-natured, cheerful.

She had the cutest curtey, bobbing up and down quickly, tipping the crown of her head forward so she could not see when Damon eyed up her jiggling bosoms. She didn’t like animals much, shooing the mousers away from her and stomping her petulant feet if they didn’t take the hint. She avoided the kennels as though they carried the plague. Damon thought that was sweet too, that she was frightened of creatures, like a little mouse.

He’d lain with her a few times, and enjoyed it, though she moaned a mite too loudly to be honest. Damon supposed that was due to fear as well. Tansy was a little too skinny; but even a cook’s daughter didn’t get extra rations, and her breasts were not quite as big as he liked because she had no spare fat. But he liked the way her small slit split open on him, her long legs spread wide around his giant form; his back too broad for her small hands to meet when she embraced him. And he loved the way she sighed and panted out her pleasure, whimpering when she fell over the cliff. Damon endeavoured to ensure she reached her peak first, so he could enjoy that noise.

If he were a man of any means, she’d make a good wife. But Damon could barely afford oil to keep his whips tight, let alone a cottage to house a woman and babes. Perhaps a war would come, and grant him the chance to raid enemy corpses, and earn the gratitude of Lord Bolton. It was the kind of satisfactory dream he found an easy path to slumber with, as he pictured a plumper Tansy, standing in a flowering meadow in a nice cotton dress, her true smile shining beneath the rays of the spring sunshine.


	60. Tyrion

THE WARY TRAVELLER

Tyrion didn’t know what to expect of the North, save for its harsh weather and equally unrefined people. He did not anticipate fine conversation or even finer wine, and brought plenty of his own books in an effort to stave off the inevitable boredom of the long journey. He knew not to anticipate much entertainment that he did not seek himself, in the less reputable and less clean establishments. Those, at least, are found everywhere a man has coin enough to pay.

Ned Stark’s reputation as a firm stick in mud has preceded him, but his many children have no legends of their own yet. Aside from the incomprehensible marriage of his daughter to a hostage, Tyrion knows almost nothing about them. Nor does he really care to. He certainly remembers there will be no one his age in the Castle, however. But children tend to be far less judgemental, as a general rule. Save for those that are naturally cruel. Somehow, he anticipated that the famously honourable Ned Stark would not suffer any of his children to be raised as brats, unlike Tyrion's own detestable nephew.

The first Stark he meets on his return from the Wall is not really a Stark at all, but now a Greyjoy, a tall girl with hair brighter than a flame. After stumbling in several hours after the main party has settled in, she hails him with a smile. Swiftly, she sweeps to perch on a low wall, so that she may sit closer to his eyeline. It is more respect than he has ever gained from anyone, save for Jaime. She does not gawp and stare at his deformity, nor titter and sneer. She simply asks after his journey, as though he were any other guest in her home.

“Long and arduous, I am sorry to say, Lady Stark,” he replies, not without a wry grin, “But I found little trifles to amuse myself.”

“Greyjoy,” She immediately corrects him, unashamed to do so. “I am Lady Greyjoy, my lord.”

“So you are,” He agrees, “And may I wish you felicitations on your recent matrimony, which I remember well. I wish you many happy years together.”

She smiles then, and it is the sun to a man battered by ceaseless storms, the moon breaking through clouds on a fearsome dark night. Her blazing blue eyes twinkle, dimples appearing in her cheeks. She is pretty enough now, but in a few years she will be a beauty worth talking about. A shame she will freeze up here in the ice, until her squidling husband drags her back to his desolate rock in the sea. Ned Stark truly is a stupid fuck, to waste such a girl’s life on a bleak, forgotten land of little worth. A girl like Sansa Greyjoy could have had the world.

She thanks him for his kind words, in a tone that seems stunningly genuine, and offers to escort him to the feast they are currently both missing.

“I get so hot all at once, for no reason other than the little one’s effect upon me,” She sighs, patting her rotund belly. She waddles under the weight of her pregnancy, her slow gait for once moving at an equal pace to his short legs. “Sometimes I need to escape the close air indoors, and breathe-in the fresh snow.”

Tyrion thinks it quite mad that anyone would ever wish to acquaint themselves with more snow than necessary, but then it rarely gets cold enough in the South to gain a fondness for such things. As they make their way inside, the smith polishing his work greets them. To Tyrion’s great surprise, Lady Sansa stops and calls him by name. The strapping young lad ducks his head respectfully as he comes to the open doorway, without even a hint of fearful grovelling. It is simply a case of bashfulness, at speaking with a pretty lady. Not fright at being addressed by one so far above his station, Tyrion notes with interest.

“Why ever are you working so late, Gendry?” She asks, resting her hands on the shelf of her stomach. “Don’t you know there is a feast commencing as we speak? With ale, and sweetmeats?”

“Aye, my lady,” replies the boy, in a King’s Landing accent if ever Tyrion heard one, “But there be dents in the Prince’s gauntlets he wants evened out ‘fore the sparring t'morrow.”

“Tosh!” cries Lady Sansa, tossing her hair attractively. “Let him whine about the marks of soldiering to my Father, whom I will be telling of this pointless waste of resources. Firewood, and your tools, are not infinite. And you need to be well-rested for your assigned work, on the morrow.”

Further shocking Tyrion, she reaches out to the boy, who immediately takes her hand as though he has done it many a time.

“You will join us, for a drink? Jon will be disappointed if you don’t,” she warns.

Stricken at the thought, the smith boy, Gendry, promises to be quick. He gives a shallow bow to them both, Tyrion first, and then as if remembering it is required, to Lady Sansa. She leads the way back into the loud, brimming hall, as though nothing unusual has taken place. She offers to accompany him to the head table, but having just found such a curious noblewoman, Tyrion is loathe to be separated from her strange ways so soon. Nothing but cold stares are waiting for him at the far end of the hall, the child he actually likes, Mrycella, probably long since a-bed.

So he refuses her offer, and finds a seat among unruly Northmen, quaffing large tankards of ale and mead. Watching as Sansa Greyjoy waddles as quickly as she can, to a table largely occupied by youths. A boy shoots up from his seat to meet her, settling his gentle hands on the sides of her belly. His kiss is tender, the nuzzling of her cheeks which follows, even more so.

Not such an arse after all, that Ned Stark, he thinks, watching the sentimental love between the two. The protective boy hovers over her, helping Lady Sansa lower herself into his previous spot on the bench. She seems grateful to be off her swollen feet, despite the short distance from the wall outside that was her previous seat. Besides the tall, willowy man that is her obviously doting husband, their table consists of several intriguing characters.

There is a curly, dark-haired youth whose long, poe-face has look of the Starks, from the small glimpse Tyrion gains of it from the side. Lady Sansa leans against him, without the Greyjoy boy bristling in jealousy. A brother then. One who wraps his arm about her and squeezes her shoulder, leaning close, likely to enquire after her health. Sweet and caring. His other arm is wrapped around a boy who should probably be a-bed, who shares Lady Greyjoy’s tumble of red curls; though his are darker, and unruly. This boy’s head is a constant twitch of movement. But he stays nestled into the safety of his brother’s arms, not allowing curiosity to best him.

A burly great hunk of a man sits on the far end of their bench, beside the Greyjoy heir, now squashed in next to his petite wife. None of them seem bothered by their close proximity, content to breathe in one another’s faces and laugh rowdily into each other’s ears. The warrior at the far end has the most elbow room, necessary since he is almost as wide as three normal sized soldiers. His face is misshapen with a deep scar around his mouth; even from a distance Tyrion can make out extensive damage. No one seems the least bit frightened or interested however, so the man is clearly no new addition to the fold.

The whole group seems tight-knit, chatting amiably to the others on the other side of their table, who’s backs are toward the wall. There is a dark-haired woman with the Mormont bear emblazoned on the leather bodice of her dress, seated beside a man with ratty features, his pointed nose only accentuated by the whiskers of his moustache. Beside him is another boy, wide-eyed and clutching his flagon of ale in tight fingers. He seems older than Lady Sansa’s young brother, but does not appear to be another one, since his hair is remorid straight and mousey brown. He is dressed in the plainest clothes of them all, not easily distinguishable from a servant, and certainly no warrior. The three men crammed in beside him could not be more different, clearly over just over the threshold of youth, but broad-shouldered with it, men already, with identical faces and bushy unkempt chin hair.

Tyrion has never actually met identical twins, the kind where the gods have supposedly split one soul across more than one body; because they have so many trials and tasks to endure, that one flesh would not be enough. His elder brother and sister are the only twins he knows. But there is no mistaking that the three faces bear the exact same features, in a way that even remarkably similar brothers do not. Triplets in the North. What great burdens and deeds have the gods stacked up for these poor fellows, that require not two but three bodies? He shudders to think.

He wishes his own brother were here now, to pick his thoughts on the matter. No doubt Jaime would have a crude comment to make of it. But Jaime was abandoned in King’s Landing. King Robert forbid his accompaniment, bellowing that the Kingsguard’s place was beside their King, and not wandering Princesses. Tyrion is allowed a brief glimpse of the top table when one brutish man carrying several tankards of ale breaks through the crowd to the roaring approval of the table he approaches. Apparently they were running dry.

To Tyrion’s surprise, Myrcella is still seated in her fine chair, though the hour draws late. In King’s Landing, Cersei was strict about bed times, not wanting her pretty daughter to have drooping dark eyes or premature wrinkles. She is charmed by conversation with Robb Stark, it seems, though his attention is mostly focused on her cousin. This is Tyrion’s ploy, of course. It is not that he distrusts the Starks; it is just that he distrusts everyone. No doubt the curly red-headed young lord is a decent sort of man, a bit simple. In the way most men who wield swords, and not pens, are. But Tyrion never saw the point of needless risk, and so had Rosamund Lannister join them, the two girls being close enough in age and looks as to be easily interchangeable.

Robb hasn’t seen Myrcella since she was a small girl, in Winterfell for the wedding of his sister, and Robert Baratheon’s mission to make Ned Stark his Hand. Robb Stark looks very lordly indeed, in his father’s seat, as acting Lord of Winerfell. He commands the room and his people well, seemingly at ease with his duties. Tyrion wonders if he would be so unflappable, if Father had hoisted him up onto his seat at Casterly Rock and bid him to take charge. Probably not at such a young age. Robb Stark seems unbothered, even when the aged, withered Maester appears from the recesses of the room; leaning down to whisper something in his ear, before melting back into the shadows.

Lord Robb absorbs the mysterious news with grace, quickly rejoining the chatter around him with a smile. His Aunt, the shrewish Lysa Arryn, sits on his other side and snaps waspishly at servants and table guests alike. Quentyn Martell looks positively alarmed to be in her presence, leaning back as she spits in rage. Tyrion is glad he forwent his seat beside her, to explore the lovely brothel in Winter Town that he enjoyed so much on his previous visit. Joffrey is still furious that he was sent North to attend his sister’s wedding, in lieu of their parents. He chews his food as though it were a dead pigeon ravaged by foxes, left on the Kingsroad, scooped up and presented to him, raw. Cersei only agreed to be parted with him, in her desperation to get him out of the Tyrell’s clutches. The Tyrell girl had him wrapped around her finger, and the whole court knew it.

Tyrion’s attention is drawn back to Lady Greyjoy’s table, when the young smith clatters inside, huffing from the cold and gratefully accepting a mug of ale. The dark-haired youth, that Tyrion now recognises as Jon Snow, the bastard Stark offshoot, has risen to his feet. He claps the boy Gendry heartily on the arm in greeting. Gendry returns his broad grin, rubbing a dribble of alcohol from his chin. What a strange collection of people, Tyrion muses. Lords and ladies, bastards and smiths, warriors and youths. What do these people find common ground on, he wonders? He doubts he will ever be privy to the details of their companionship, but it is interesting to muse on it. The little Stark is lifted effortlessly by the young smith, envious muscles bulging, as he takes the now vacant seat on the bench, placing the boy onto his thick shoulders. Bran Stark, unless it is Rickon (for at this distance Tyrion cannot tell) squeals in delight, clutching at Gendry’s hair for a handhold.

Tyrion sips on his own Summerwine, watching the furious card game that breaks out. The triplets all crow in victory whenever one of them wins. Robb Stark is thoroughly immersed in Rosamund now, Myrcella pouting a little at his disregard. It is for the best, Tyrion reasons with himself. Better to gauge Robb’s reaction to the timid, withdrawn Rosamund, before the sweeter, more active Myrcella can step into her rightful place. The deception need not go on forever. Only until the wedding. When they are sure that Cersei’s paranoia is only that, and her insistence that they are in danger from plots by perpetrators unknown does not come to pass.

When Myrcella is safely wed, the Lannisters will be secure. No matter that Stannis Baratheon seethes on Dragonstone, nursing his resentment, and the Tyrells scheme to get their girl on the throne. Dorne radiates hatred, refusing to send envoys to anything, even declining to send Princess Arianne as a potential match for Joffrey. Things feel more stable here in the North, among the savages. Iron Islanders, and Northmen from the entire region, are crammed into Winterfell. The rich Manderleys nestled beside masterly Tallharts, humble Hornwoods beside brusque Forresters. There are even members of the Night’s Watch here; stoic First Ranger Benjen Stark, seated next to his almost-goodsister, the ever charming Lady Arryn.

Tyrion spies an unfamiliar sigil that itches at the back of his mind so long that he simply must enquire about it. The Karstark beside him snorts, and names the men on a far table as Skaggs. Tyrion stares in awe at the reported cannibals, feasting merrily in the Lord of Winterfell’s hall. What a curious world it has become, he thinks, sipping from his wine. With the South growing ever more ominous, jealousy and disgust framing most interactions between Houses, here in the North, all are welcome to the seat of its power. Even the savage tribes from far flung islands, little better than the wildlings from beyond the Wall. He wonders if Myrcella will ever feel at home here, in this desolate place, where the people are as hard as the land that sustains them.

Their brutal ‘historic’ practices bared for all to see, from the flayed man on a Bolton soldier’s leathers, to the goblet that a bares horrific resemblance to a human skull, in the hands of what Tyrion now recognises as a member of House Stane. The bare driftwood on the Skaggs' rough-hewn jerkin resembles a dead, withered husk of a hand. Tyrion returns to his wine, queasy at the idea. Perhaps it is just as well they are honest about their history.

Here, they do not cloak the savagery behind false smiles and the thin veil of civility. Folk are more honest. They openly show their disregard, with no thought for politic behaviour. Tyrion only hopes his own deception will be forgiven, when all is revealed. So long as Robb Stark lives up to the honourable name of his ancestors, and does not blame Myrcella for his deeds, he supposes there shouldn’t be much of a problem. Tyrion is as blind as any puppet master to the whims of his creatures. He does not see the way that Robb’s eyes lighten in Rosamund's presence, nor the way he indulges her timidity with great warmth; and nor will he, until it is far too late.


	61. Ramsay IV

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay hadn't given much thought to the phlegm-haired Lady Wylla’s whelp, save for Dom’s obvious excitement about it all. He didn't even seem disappointed that it was a girl. Ramsay wasn't interested in babes; all they did was wail, shit and spew vomit everywhere. And the whelp had a squashed head like a malformed potato. If Gwyn hadn't deposited the girl in his arms, he would never have bothered to seek her out.

As it was, he was inclined to be mindful of Gwyn, who began to insist that he attend all family functions. She talked over Wylla whenever the girl tried to ignore his contribution to the conversation. Loudly asking Ramsay for his opinion on the current topic. And the clothes she fashioned for him were on a par with Dom’s nicest garments. So Ramsay didn't shy away when she foisted the fat babe on him.

“She's the look of you about her,” the woman insisted, “what she gets from her father, he shares with you. The Bolton look.”

Ramsay didn't notice it until she pointed it out, but once he started looking he noted the waves on the girl’s head were a dark blonde, almost mousey and like to turn brown. Her ears were small and close to the head, like his own. Her eyes were icy hoarfrost like the pair he saw staring back at him in any glass. A Bolton girl, to be sure.

The more time he spent with Dom and his daughter, the less irritating he found the girl. She had been named Bethany for his brother's mother. When she was quiet, her fascination with the world was amusing, her grip strong when she clung onto Ramsay's fingers, her new teeth sharp when she bit down on his fist. He liked to tickle her tummy and the way she kicked him strongly in response.

Were it not for plump little Beth, he might never have thought to have babes of his own. Pregnancy was boring, he’d always believed: but babes had proved to be more interesting than he’d thought. Watching Beth crawl about the castle, smacking at things with her tiny hands and cooing at his prize bitches, was always amusing.

So when he entered Myranda’s small room in the servant’s quarters and saw her pouring a familiar brew from her chipped teapot, his stomach gave a queer lurch.

“Just a moment, my lord,” she sent him a smouldering look, her mud brown eyes glittering with lust. She blew on the teacup in her hand, waiting for it be cool enough to drink. Ramsay found himself briskly crossing the room before he knew what he was doing.

He placed a hand over the cup, slowly but firmly pressing it low, until she was forced to set it down on her little table. She eyed him with confusion and mistrust. Myranda wasn't afraid of him, he knew, but she knew what he did to people that displeased him.

“Babes are boring.” She said, as though to remind him.

“Most,” Ramsay agreed, “Not Bolton babes.”

If she had reminded him of his bastardy then, he may not have been so rash, but she said not a word when he upended the moontea on the bare stone floor and hiked up her skirts.

When all was said and done, it took Gwyn's influence to get his father to bend, and allow him to marry Myranda in the godswood, in a finer dress than she’d ever even seen in her life.

Perhaps the best outcome, aside from Wylla incensed that she was expected to sit beside a bastard and his common folk wife at the lord’s table, was that many moons later, Ramsay was able to sneer at the Manderly wench and say; “Say what you like about common breeding stock. At least they know how to birth sons.”

Wylla sneered back at him, but Ramsay was too busy being self-satisfied to care. His boy had two puddles of mud for eyes, like his mother, and a familiar squashed potato head with tiny ears. The babe did his fair share of squalling and vomiting, but he was generally a quiet boy, always content to lie in his father's arms.

Sharing his bed with Myranda on a permanent basis was no hardship either; her small tits had swollen up to the size of ample oranges since being with child. Ramsay loved to tug and suckle on them, enjoying having a legitimate reason to loll about in bed with his wife all morn.


	62. Tyrion II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancast for additional/ASOIAF only characters [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595529).
> 
> Maps, family trees etc [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615728).

THE WARY TRAVELLER

On his previous trip to Winterfell, Tyrion spent a fair amount of time rooting around the library, which the Starks had been generous about giving him free access to. Despite his stellar memory, he can’t seem to find the bloody place again. After wasting the better part of an hour wandering aimlessly, poking his head into various storerooms, solars, bedchambers and servant’s quarters, he gives up. He should have simply asked in the first instance, but at this early hour, he hadn’t wanted to disturb the household. After the first of many incorrect turns, it became a point of pride. Dejected, he peers over a low wall into the courtyard below. Directly ahead, the distinctive gate to the godswood shimmers with morning dew. A few scant servants scurry about their assigned duties, but them aside, Winterfell is still sleeping.

A distant curiosity rises in him, something thought long forgotten. Tyrion had never actually been in a real godswood before. Not a real one with actual weirwood trees, where those who truly keep the old gods worship. His small feet steadily lead him down toward it, before he can question his motives. In the South, it was fashionable for wealthy great Houses to have a well-maintained godswood, with large, leafy trees. They were places to relax in the sun; the trees providing refreshing shelter in the heat of summer. Very little actual worship took place there. Apparently it would be useless to try, without a heart tree, if the Northmen were to be believed. The old gods could only hear through a weirwood. Which seems rather lacking in power, if you were to ask Tyrion. No one ever does.

When Tyrion was a boy, he had entertained the idea of becoming the High Septon. He can still recite whole chapters and passages from the Seven Pointed Star. Jaime becoming a member of the Kingsguard squashed that dream; his Father was loathe to lose both scions of his House to celibate duty. It seemed ridiculous, as he’d never arranged a marriage for Tyrion anyway. It was clear that Kevan’s line would be the one to inherit Casterly Rock, and so he had been deprived of his dream for nothing. He knew better than to ever mention such things, however. He would receive no pity, save for Jaime. And there were times when a man did not want his brother’s pity. Most days, in fact.

Because of this early devotion to the Seven, Tyrion had never given much thought to the savage gods of the First Men. The idea of praying outside in the dirt and expecting answers from trees seemed so primitive as to be barbaric. So he had never indulged his curiosity during their first trip North. His sister needed no more ammunition with which to disparage him as a filthy savage. But Cersei wasn’t here, and Joffrey had never been known as an early riser. With so few people about, there was little danger of his being discovered.

He waddles amongst the gnarled and twisted ancient trees, caught up entirely in his own thoughts. So much so that it takes him a fair while to spot the signature blood-red leaves on the bone-white weirwood, stretching spiney limbs above the trees ahead. He realises his mistake as soon as the thick branches and wide trunk with a huge hideous face, weeping red sap, comes into view. He is in the North now. And as he previously mused, they keep to old ways here. He finds the base of the weirwood rather crowded, and curses himself for interrupting. He is too close now to slink away unnoticed.

None of the silent worshipers look around or acknowledge him, however. The four are kneeling, heads bowed, in the grassy dirt. Lord Robb and his baseborn brother Jon, Lady Sansa, and the littlest Stark boy, whose name might be Bran or Rickon. Not a word of prayer can be heard, though Tyrion sees Robb’s lips move occasionally. He sees them in profile, though Lady Sansa’s face is obscured by her deep red hair, tumbling down loosely. The three boys can only be described as serene however; their faces terribly young, smooth and worry-free. He would suspect them to be sleeping, were it not for the awkward position. Tyrion has never seen anyone go into a trance, as they say the Red Priestesses of Essos do, but he imagines it must look something akin to this.

He does not know how long he remains watching the silent siblings, but he is broken from the enchantment when Lady Sansa dips her head even lower for a moment, before climbing to her feet. She rests her hand on Lord Robb’s shoulder, leaning heavily on him for support. Her swollen belly makes lurching up from such a low position difficult. The boy doesn’t even seem to notice.

She catches sight of Tyrion then, her pretty blue eyes widening in surprise. Like a rabbit ensnared, Tyrion does not move as she approaches him. Sansa says not a word until there is less than arm’s span between them.

“Did you come to pray, my lord?” She whispers, “My brothers will not mind if you join them. The godswood is for all to use.”

“Alas, my lady,” he replies, in an equally low tone, “I admit I came only to satisfy my curiosity.”

She arches an eyebrow at that, before turning to join a well-trodden path, clearly expecting him to follow. Tyrion obeys the silent command, again glad there is someone whose pace he can easily match. When they are far enough away from the heart tree to speak at a normal volume, Sansa enquires;

“Perhaps you will join me instead then, to break your fast?”

“An infinitely more agreeable prospect, my lady.” He accepts, as she leads him down an unfamiliar path, which takes them past the hot, deep pools of black water. Tyrion eyes them with some interest, understanding these are the hot springs that heat the castle walls so uniquely.

The gate they exit leads them across the first yard one enters when arriving at Winterfell. She does not lead him away toward the hall or kitchens, or even the family apartments. He assumed this was where Lady Sansa must break her fast daily with her lord husband, as she is never in attendance at the hall for morning meals. Tyrion himself enjoys to take his first meal of the day in his bedchambers, when circumstance will allow it. He has not been so uncouth to request such here.

Lady Sansa walks confidently past the central gate of Winterfell, to a thin tower, sharp and neat, with a heavy wooden door guarded by two slavering stone wolves. She unlatches the unlocked door, bidding Tyrion enter first. Curious, Tyrion hesitates only a moment before plunging into the dark recess of the unknown, finding himself in a small stone passage. There are two painted doors ahead of him, and a winding staircase to his right. He is startled to find himself looking at a Greyjoy banner, hanging boldly between the doors and the first stone steps.

“The right-side door,” Sansa trills, shutting the outside door behind her, closing out the cold.

Tyrion obediently opens the door in question, finding himself at the entrance to a small solar. It is fitted with chests, bookcases, two desks and a small table with room for four. Two of the chairs are already occupied. A roaring fireplace flickers merrily, providing heat and light, with a thick pile of fur lying directly in front. The attention of the two occupants snaps toward him. Lord Theon, whose eyes narrow in suspicion, and an older lady, pale with greying hair, whom Tyrion does not recognise at all.

He is forced to move into the room when Sansa advances behind him. She efficiently strips off her cloak to hang on a hook close to the fireplace. Then she holds out her hand to Tyrion, and it takes him a long moment to realise she expects him to hand her his own cloak, as though she were a servant. Quickly, in attempt to counteract the awkward atmosphere, he undoes the lion’s head clasp and lifts the heavy fur up to her.

Without any word of explanation, Lady Sansa advances on her lord husband, whose eyes soften as he takes in her rosy-cheeked face and bulging pregnant belly. She leans over him to kiss his lips, caressing down the soft waves of his hair. Lord Theon's hands smooth down the skirts around her belly. The mysterious lady munches on a chunk of bread, generously slavered with jam, utterly unconcerned. Tyrion attempts to be equally blasé about such public affection, the like of which he has never observed at court.

Pulling back from the kiss, Lady Sansa addresses Tyrion again, bidding him to take a seat. She rounds the table to greet the other lady, giving her shoulder a friendly squeeze. Then she moves away from them all and takes a poker from the rack beside the fire. Carefully skirting the pale grey furs, Sansa plunges it into the roaring depths of the flames. Tyrion stares as she simply steps back and leaves it there. He almost falls from his seat after barely scrambling onto it, when the furs move and reveal themselves to be a gigantic direwolf.

He has seen the famous Stark direwolves before, of course. This beast is not one of those. Perhaps five times the length of the younger wolves, the beast rears up and yawns, revealing rows of small white swords. It has a long, regal snout and disarming, golden eyes which seem to glow brighter than the flames dancing behind its head.

“Storm,” tuts Lady Sansa, patting the beast’s shaggy head, “You are frightening our guest.”

The wolf lets out a huff, before laying back down, eyes still trained on Tyrion.

“My husband’s wolf,” Sansa reveals, finally taking her seat. “We thought it best she didn’t roam freely yet, for the Princess’ sake.”

Rosamund is growing accustomed to Lord Robb’s wolf, it must be said. Grey Wind is exceptionally well behaved around her, often sitting at his master’s feet during court. The real Mrycella is still rather leery of the powerful creatures; quite sensibly, Tyrion believes. He reaches for a plate and a peach, his gaze remaining locked on the giant predator.

Theon has already prepared a plate for Sansa. He has piled up bread, salted ham, grapes and cheese, as well as an iced lemoncake. This is the first item Sansa demolishes. The appetites of pregnant women are well known across the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion remembers his own sister similarly preoccupied by food during her three pregnancies, and is not surprised by the rapid manner with which Sansa’s meal begins disappearing.

“I do not believe we have met, my lady?” Tyrion asks of the older woman, who fixes him with a vacant stare. Her eyes are cold like a dead fish, and he suppresses a shiver. He is suddenly glad their paths have not crossed until now.

“Mother, this is Tyrion of House Lannister,” Lord Theon intervenes with a glare, daring him to question the woman’s odd manner, “Lord Tyrion; my lady mother, Alannys Greyjoy.”

“Indeed?” Tyrion smiles kindly, “A delight to make your acquaintance.”

“Where’s Gwyn?” Sansa asks her husband, while tucking into a slice of bread dipped in honey.

“Dreadfort,” Theon replies shortly, tearing off a piece of ham and throwing it over his shoulder; the wolf catches it effortlessly, licking its chops with a huge pink tongue. “Probably halfway there by now. She set off when it was still dark.”

A look passes between man and wife then, something significant. Tyrion would not hazard to guess its meaning. It is becoming evident that Winterfell holds more secrets than anticipated, several in this tower alone. He resolves to discreetly look into why Lady Gwynesse Harlaw's presence at the Dreadfort may be important.

“I have never visited the Dreadfort.” Tyrion interjects smoothly, “Tell me, does it deserve its fearsome reputation?”

“Mayhaps we should all go,” Sansa suggests, “And then you could judge for yourself.”

“Lady Wylla would be thrilled to meet Princess Mrycella.” Theon adds.

Tyrion promises to consider the suggestion, though it does seem like a good one. He would sooner travel about the realm than remain at the rather uneventful Winterfell. He will freely own that the terrifying tales of the Dreadfort arouse a certain macabre interest.

“Would you care for some spicewine, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa offers, interrupting his musings. “I find it works wonders to shake off the chill.”

“Certainly, if you recommend it. I have no doubt I shall enjoy this Northern delicacy.” Tyrion readily agrees, having made it a habit to never turn down wine.

“You don’t have spicewine in the South?” Theon asks, rising out of his seat to pour a decanter of wine into a large silver bowl. Tyrion watches with raised eyebrows, having incorrectly assumed the silver bowl was a serving dish, emptied of its wares.

“Not that I know of,” Tyrion answers, “And I do know rather a lot about wine, it must be said.”

“You are in for a treat, my lord. It is a combination of a dark red, ginger and spices. It must always be drunk hot,” Sansa explains, which has Tyrion sitting up in anticipation of something truly new.

“Hot?” he repeats, “I have heard of hot cider, but hot wine…?”

“Reserve your judgement til afterward,” Theon suggests, having gathered the now red hot poker from the fire, he plunges it into the bowl of wine, which immediately begins to froth and bubble. Sansa claps in delight, for once acting her young age.

After allowing a moment for cooling, man and wife serve their guests. Theon carefully ladles the hot wine into wooden goblets, which Sansa passes out. The scent of the drink is rich and seductive, ginger and cinnamon strong and enticing. After swirling it a little and blowing vigorously, Tyrion bravely takes a sip.

“Gods be good,” he whispers, in awe. Such excellence being kept hidden from him for so many years, can only be blamed the Southron habit of dismissing Northern customs.

“Is it to your liking, my lord?” Sansa’s eyes twinkle knowingly at him from across the tabletop.

“Lady Sansa, it is divine.” Tyrion praises.

Silently, he wonders what other delights are just waiting to be discovered, secreted away in the enigmatic North.


	63. Ramsay V

THE SLY TRAVELLER

The Lannister Imp was coming to the Dreadfort, with Robb Stark’s Southron future bride and all the little Starks. Naturally, Dom’s Stark page boy was exuberant, practically bouncing off the walls with his ceaseless energy. Ramsay hoped his own son would not grow to be so energetic; the little scamp was constantly clattering about the place and scrambling up walls like some kind of hybrid of spider and man. Ramsay resisted the urge to push him off a ledge or awning, whenever he came across the boy teetering on some extremely high outcropping of the castle walls or crenellations. It was almost more than his impulses could take, so strong was his desire to shut the boy up by cracking his skull on the flagstones below.

Unfortunately, Father would have him killed if he injured Ned Stark's son. So instead Ramsay took out his frustrations on any peasants he came upon, on his now frequent rides out into the surrounding countryside. He was careful not to leave the borders of his father’s land. Lest he accidentally scar-up some Umber man, and cause a war between the two close Houses. Father would not treat him kindly for unwittingly revealing which kind of games he played, to their closest neighbours.

Dom thought the encroaching visit an opportunity to garner favour with the Starks. The newly-made Greyjoy one was already a favourite of his, though she had spurned him for the Ironborn arse. Ramsay had expected to hate the Ironborn more than he did; Gwyn’s influence perhaps, though he was conscious that the hostage that had been living in the North almost all of Ramsay’s life had never given him cause to take offence. He was less arrogant than most lordlings, a quiet sort of man, like Dom. They had barely exchanged words, but Theon Greyjoy had complimented his skill with the bow once, and another time had defended his right to sit at a decent table in Ned Stark’s hall, despite his base blood.

Ramsay didn’t think well of anyone; people were sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Only a few were hidden foxes and wolves, cloaked in wolly garb, but able to bare their teeth when cornered. He doubted Greyjoy was one of those, but his new wife might just prove to be. She’d killed a wildling that threatened Dom once. For that, and the fact that her husband kept out of his way unless being useful, made him as kindly disposed toward them as he could be to anyone that wasn’t Dom or Myranda.

*

Aunt Barbrey had come to visit already, to get the measure of the Baratheon Princess. As soon as she heard of the engagement between the Stark boy and the King’s daughter, she had packed up her best dresses and made her way to the Dreadfort. It was a more pleasant visit than her last one, when she had met Gwyn for the first time.

After learning during her previous visit of the Stark children’s penchant for calling Gwynesse Harlaw ‘Aunt Gwyn’, Lady Barbrey had wanted to become ‘Aunt’. Ramsay found he rather liked the sentiment of it, despite the falsehood. They had always gotten along well, bonding over their shared regard for Dom, and then upon their own merits, when Dom was gone to the Vale and Ramsay was at a loss without him.

If not for Aunt Barbrey, he would have had nowhere to turn when the Dreadfort became too stifling. She gave him good food and wine on his visits to Barrowton. And who knows what kind of terrors Ramsay would have unleashed upon the smallfolk in a bid to relinquish his frustrations, if he didn't have her hospitality to fall upon. Ramsay might have made a name for himself that he could never scrub out.

Truly, he was grateful for the consideration Aunt Barbrey showed him, and was obliged to take her stance in many things, especially if it was against the views of his father. But he was glad of the reprieve, when she had accompanied Father to the Grand Gathering of Northern lords that Ned Stark had called to Winterfell, as was her right as the head of House Dustin. For dealing with Barbrey, while Gwyn was in attendance to his father, was exceedingly tiresome.

So much that Ramsay was inclined to set aside all the goodwill the women had accrued from him, and wish a pox upon them both, if only to get some peace. The two women dragged him and Dom between them, as a measure of their influence. Aunt Barbrey detested Gwyn, and did not think an Ironborn an adequate replacement of her sister. She loathed that Gwyn acted as the Lady of the Dreadfort, without being Father’s official wife. Wylla tended to agree with Barbrey, which made Myranda more dogged in her support of Gwyn, who had always been polite to her, despite her low birth. Something which the snobbish Wylla would never condescend to do.

Aunt Barbrey overturned Gwyn’s orders ceaselessly, altering even the smallest changes in room decoration, table accompaniments, seating arrangements and arguing over trivialities so doggedly that Father was forced to intervene before the two women came to blows. No doubt Gwyn would use the lack of respect toward her informal position as an excuse for Father to finally marry her.

Ramsay was glad of it, as he had become used to a woman’s touch about the keep, and if it ended the rivalry between the womenfolk in his life, he might suffer less headaches after family meals. The two elder women had been more subdued after the Grand Gathering, equally tight-lipped on what Ned Stark had been so worked up about.

Aunt Barbrey had warned him not to pay any attention to Maester Wolkan during Father’s absence; “Pay no mind to the suggestions of that grey rat,” she had sniffed, “You are a better choice of castellan for the fort, and your father would admit it, were he not so damned officious.”

But after she had returned from Winterfell, she barely had time to congratulate him for exerting his authority over the castle, such was her distraction. Some kind of accord had been reached between her and Gwyn, and Barbrey went home with nary a cross word spoken toward her again. And now she had returned, to see what the future rulers of the North were made of. Father had betrothed himself to Gwyn, giving her a true position in the household, and the women suddenly seemed yoked together in their joint contempt for Southrons.

Princess Myrcella was a meek little cub, hardly a fierce lion or furious stag to be feared, but braver than her skittish cousin at least. Nothing like the savage lioness her mother the Queen was said to be. Barbrey didn’t think much of her, far preferring the mother of Robb Stark’s bastard as a suggestion for the next Lady Stark, the Reed girl. They had gotten to know one another, when their parties travelled together on her return trip to the Dreadfort, after the gathering.

Father had hosted Lord Reed and his children, as well as the Whitehills and Hornwoods, in a bid to make his intentions less obvious. No matter how often Ramsay hissed that he was already wed, Father insisted he would set aside his ‘peasant bride’, despite the son she bore him, if Meera Reed took a liking to him.

Control of a man’s child gave you control of his heart, Father said, and raising Robb Stark’s bastard at the Dreadfort would give their family a leverage that no Bolton had enjoyed over a Stark for many centuries. Ramsay had no intention of raising another man’s son- he had his hands fully occupied by the needs of one dependant babe. He did not long for another. Thankfully, the plan did not come to fruition. Howland Reed took the vows of marriage very seriously, and refused to offer the hand of his disgraced daughter to a man already wed. A sensible stance, Ramsay felt, though Father remained sour at the lost opportunity.

Daryn Hornwood had taken a liking to the only Whitehill girl, also named Gwyn, during their stay. But they left for their respective homes with no hint of a future betrothal, so Father was not the only one disappointed by thwarted matches. Such was the unpredictable nature of life.


	64. Tyrion III

THE WARY TRAVELLER

The Dreadfort emerges over the hill like a forked spear of glittering black rock, made glossy by the slick of rain. Its stones are smaller and darker than the large slabs that Winterfell is composed of. Tyrion allows the dark, menacing structure to still his breath for a moment, having never seen its like in all his travels. It is every bit as dreadful as the name would suggest.

The Boltons are a small formation waiting in the cold, muddy courtyard, stoic and grim in the manner of most Northmen. Tyrion recognises only the woman beside Lord Bolton, in the place usually reserved for the Lady of the keep. Lady Gwynesse Harlaw stands rigid, her face severe as a thundercloud; utterly aligned with the rest of the household. Lord Bolton's arm is settled about her back, holding her comfortably close, and she does not seem ill at ease with the casual touch. Indeed, she seems so suited to her place that it takes Tyrion a moment to realise what is wrong with the picture the household forms. Though a guest, Lady Gwynesse should not stand in such a place of pride among the family. It is clear then, what exactly Lord and Lady Greyjoy found so significant in her presence here. Apparently, it will not be long before another wedding takes place in this bleak castle.

Lord Bolton and Lady Gwyn, as she is known by all in Winterfell, are accompanied by two young men. Obviously the Lord’s sons, sharing his stature and similar looks. The elder is joined by his lady wife, the blonde woman that was lately a Manderly, if Tyrion remembers correctly. Sleeping in her arms is a baby girl child. Standing slightly separate is the missing Stark, the reason why only one small boy is in attendance at Winterfell.

After pleasantries are exchanged, and the Baratheon-Lannister contingent is offered bread and salt, the procession troops inside. The Starks have been afforded their “usual rooms”, which they immediately head toward. No doubt to wash off the stink and dust of travel. Tyrion follows his assigned guide, with Myrcella and Rosamund hot on his heels, clutching one another for courage. Tyrion cannot fault them for it; the castle seems even colder inside, unwelcoming and dark, with only every second sconce lit.

The hideously ugly sigil of the Flayed Man hangs intermittently, or else is carved into the very stone. The anguished faces of the men is rendered in exquisite, agonising detail, their phantom screams ringing silently down every passageway. Tyrion feels himself begin to shiver, and knows it is not only due to the chill. What a horrid place. He regrets asking after it now; would that he could keep his curious tongue behind his teeth. They could be enjoying a nice meal in Winterfell’s warm, if basic, hall. Instead, he is shown to an ugly bedchamber with small windows, heavy blue and purple decoration sapping even more of the scant light. At least the fireplace is gigantic.

He elects to spend as little time alone in this fortress, as possible. Beginning immediately; he leaves Lannister servants to unpack his small travel bag, and goes to seek out Myrcella. Rosamund is also in her room, having been given the nicest chambers due to the assumption of who she is. The girls will swap without anyone taking notice; the guards at their doors being Baratheon men, naturally. They will expect Mrycella to arrive here after feasting to sleep. It is a large chamber with a four-poster bed, draped entirely in dark pink coverings. The room smells strongly of dried flowers, though live ones have been placed about the room also. At least it is more cheerful than Tyrion’s rooms.

She and Rosamund are comparing dresses, trying to decide what to wear for their first evening in the different castle.

“The Bolton sigil is pink, though I have seen a lot of blue also.” Myrcella says, brandishing a deep indigo dress covered in tiny beads.

“You would look very fetching in the pink, though. This golden yellow sash would be very smart with it.” Rosamund counters, laying the item in question over a frilly pink mountain of material, that might be a dress or a dawn cloud.

“I must agree, my dear,” Tyrion says, “Pink brings out the loveliest blush to your cheek.”

As if to prove it, Myrcella flushes and smiles winsomely. Robb Stark will be the worst kind of fool if he does not cherish her, Tyrion thinks.

“Thank you Uncle,” she whispers, always shy when complimented.

Tyrion is terribly glad that Joffrey whined his way out of attending this extra excursion. His meek sister will have a much nicer time without the horrid brat. Myrcella is like a blooming flower whenever out of the overshadowing presence of her mother and brother, weeds that usually catch all the sun.

Also missing from the group is Arya Stark. Tyrion was terribly confused when the topic of discussion the night before was which Stark would remain behind. Jon had offered to do so, but Sansa had insisted he come. According to her, Bran would be terribly disappointed otherwise. Finally, Tyrion learnt that the other small Stark was currently a page for Ser Domeric, Lord Bolton’s heir. Robb was reluctant for any of them to leave, but was overwhelmed by the majority who wished to visit the castle. Rosamund swayed him with her gentle admission that she too would like to see more of the North. This pleased the young lord, who of course was obliged to accompany her.

Truthfully, Tyrion had been completely confused as to why anyone must remain behind. “Is there none you trust more than a child, to act as castellan?” He had asked.

An entire table of confused faces had turned to him at once.

“You mistake me, my lord.” Robb Stark had finally answered. “It is not a case of trustworthy castellans. Maester Luwin will take good care of the daily run of Winterfell, in my stead.”

“Then why-” Tyrion didn’t manage to complete his question, as several voices said in unison;

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Lady Sansa said it in a particularly grim fashion, whilst the small children in that unique tone of response when adults are being especially dumb.

No further elaboration was given; Arya Stark volunteered and was accepted as the person for this role.

“You only need to hold session once to listen to grievances, while I am gone.” Robb said firmly, “But you must attend it in its entirety, and dress appropriately. Luwin will tell me if you don’t.”

She had rolled her eyes, but promised to comply with his wishes.

Tyrion still cannot believe that such a young girl was given charge of a keep, even if only for just over a sennight. Such a thing would never happen in the South. But he can see the merit of ensuring a member of the family is always present at the castle. How Arya is faring with Joffrey and her sour Aunt Lysa for company, Tyrion would not hazard to guess. He heard her loudly checking that Gendry would be remaining in the smithy before they left, so perhaps she has an unorthodox friend in place.

Though they have temporarily lost the company of one Stark, they have gained another in little Bran. The boy is proud and eager to show off his page boy uniform to Jon, whom he has evidently not seen in some time. That first feast the boy speaks enthusiastically the entire time, his head bobbing in rhythm, whilst shovelling potatoes into his mouth. Lady Sansa fusses over him, claiming to have missed him very much. Rickon Stark clearly feels the same way, as he spends the entire meal in his brother’s lap.

There is no dancing that night in the Dreadfort, but Ser Domeric Bolton plays the harp, while Lady Wylla sings a sweet accompanyment. Rosamund and Myrcella seem particularly moved, misty eyes moist when they applaud. Myrcella looks splendidly sweet in her pink ruffles, but Robb Stark seems more enamoured with Rosamund in her svelte Lannister-red wrap dress. Tyrion hides his frown behind his drink. Perhaps the time to reveal the ruse is almost upon them, though the wedding is still almost half a year hence. He had hoped to stretch the deception to its limit.

After the singing, Lady Wylla recites a poem regarding garden bees, her baby daughter joining in at set intervals with a clap of her pudgy hands. She charmingly babbled over the words, and tucked her face close to her mother's bosom when she was praised.

The Northmen do not seem bothered by the grim castle. They talk animatedly among themselves, catching up on news. The keep might be draughty, the decor heavy and gruesome, but the spicewine flows generously, and the honey roast pork was delicious. Lady Gwyn admonishes Theon for bringing her sister along. But is quickly calmed by his assertion that trying to leave her behind would have been a disaster. The boy’s gigantic wolf curls up with its pups, the Stark direwolves in one large fluffy pile beside the hall’s sooty fireplace. Bran Stark spills gravy across the table in his eagerness to showcase his swordplay manoevers. He is scolded at first by Lady Wylla, before she dissolves into laughter. Even here, Tyrion muses, some semblance of warmth can be found. What an odd place the North is shaping up to be.


	65. Daryn

THE RESOLUTE TRAVELLER

They had been sworn to secrecy about the Northern garrison. No official name had been given yet, to the men who had been stationed in the Gift, running daily drills and being taught by experienced soldiers how to fight. Ned Stark had convinced every House to send at least a hundred men. Peasants, beggars, criminals, third sons and farmers, nobles and low Houses and clansmen from the mountains, even some Skaggs; all were sent to train as an army does. Learning battle formations and manoeuvres, techniques best utilised on living enemies, but would at least grant them the discipline to form up and hold fast during the fighting. Low numbers of men from each territory, that would easily be ignored by any Southron spies which had infiltrated the North, or curious visitors to the land. The Grand Gathering had decided they could not afford to reveal their armament to Robert Baratheon. Not until the King had been softened to be ready to accept the return of the White Walkers. 

It seemed a horrible dream, that Daryn would surely soon wake from, to know that he was living during the Age of the return of the cold, living-ice creatures from the Lands of Always Winter. Many had not wanted to believe it at first. Sneering that Ned Stark had gone mad, or his Southron wife had sucked all the sense from him, when she sucked out his seed. But reports of the Others came from members of the Night's Watch, Northmen and Dornish that had scouted Beyond the Wall, and wildlings themselves. Brutes whom Ned Stark had treated with, and agreed with Lord Commander Mormont safe passage through the Wall, to house on his lands. It was a decision that had caused uproar, especially amongst Houses Umber and Lake, who were the closest to the Gift, and thus first in line to be raided whenever wildlings reaved South of the Wall.

But Ned Stark had won them all over, when he produced a genuine Child of the Forest. A beautiful, diminutive female creature, with eyes that glowed like golden stars, dressed in tightly woven leathers that rustled like her namesake. Few men could bring themselves to disbelieve the words of such a fascinating specimen of legend. She was an ancient creature, who described the North before Winterfell was even built, and had been a personal companion of Bran the Builder. It was Daryn's favourite boyhood book of legends brought to life, sprung clean from the painted pages. 

Now Robert Baratheon had finally come and gone, none the wiser about the dire state of affairs in the North. Too busy worrying about his precious foster father, betrothals and matters of no importance: not when the survival of all living creatures was at stake. Ned Stark was a cautious man, and had chosen not to reveal all the madness which had become daily life in the North, until such time as the King's mind was settled on matters of state. So the Lord of Winterfell had accompanied Robert Baratheon to their childhood foster home in the Eyrie, to attend upon Jon Arryn and discover the cause of his abdication as Hand. The Queen had been sent South again, reluctantly leaving behind her eldest son and daughter in Riverrun, to be sent back North and fostered for a time in Winterfell, until the girl was old enough to marry Robb Stark.

Daryn cared not one whit for any of the politics, distracting people from the true issue at hand. The Long Night would soon be upon them! He had wanted to join the Northern garrison, to be the first in line to fight and defend all men from the Others. Mother and Father would not hear of it. He was their only heir, and as such could not go off gallivanting and get himself killed. For they were too old to have another, and besides his bastard brother, House Hornwood had no other family who could rule the Hornwood in his absence. 

As such, it was imperative that Daryn gain himself a wife. Once he was secure in a marriage with an heir of his own, he could get on with the business of ensuring the survival of mankind. It seemed ridiculous to him that his parents should worry so about succession, when the survival of their entire species was at stake. Yet if it would put their mind at ease, he was not opposed to taking a wife earlier than anticipated. His parents had been in long frustrating discussions with the Karstarks for many moons, and Daryn needed more assurance than a betrothal agreed upon in half a year's time.

His candidates as he saw them, were thus; Gwyn Whitehill, a comely girl but attached to a warmongering, jealous family, Alys Karstark, of the most ancient, noble blood in the North, with a healthy dowry to boot, or Eddara Tallhart, the cousin of his own Tallhart cousins, of decent stock and unimpeachable in conduct.

Being a close relation to his cousins, Eddara was therefore the easiest to befriend and gain a truer insight on. She was the clear front-runner of the race. Daryn already knew her family, and it was easy enough to write to his Aunt Berena and arrange a visit, whilst she was also in attendance at Torrhen's Square. Just as he remembered, she was a sweet, polite girl. Whilst it was true it would be wasteful to rejoin their family with the Tallharts, Daryn favoured haste over petty political alliance. He hoped to convince his parents of the same, but they would not be moved to consider Eddara a viable option, and ordered him home via strongly-worded raven.

Undaunted, Daryn went out of his way to pay a visit to Castle Cerwyn on his return. Knowing that Jonelle had been disappointed that her father did not arrange a match with Samwell Tarly, before he was snapped up the Manderly heiress. To his pleasant surprise, Daryn found it was Jorelle Mormont that captured his eye; a dark-haired beauty, with none of the ungainly bulk of her warrior sisters.

Though Jory can weild a sword, she preferred her sewing needles, and responded well to Daryn's overtures. She had a pleasant laugh and made decent conversation, and though she was a bastard, none would dare term her such. Jory agreed to write to her mother, and accompanied him home to the Hornwood, to meet his parents and assess his home. She claimed to be very pleased by the stone keep and surrounding dense forest. They talked of hunting game together in the spring, and compared whittling techniques, for Jory had some skill with the whittle knife.

Her House might be from a small island with little resources and therefore poor, but it is an ancient and noble one, and his parents were much more enamoured with this choice. By the time he is in attendance with those travelling to the Dreadfort to introduce themselves to the Princess Myrcella, he is a happily betrothed man. Finally, Daryn had found a match for himself, that meant he might win some glory for his maligned House after all; provided he has enough time to train with the other troops, before the North was over-run by dead men, ice spiders and Others.


	66. Robb III

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

Robb roughly throws a spare jerkin into his travel pack, almost tearing it in his haste. He resists the urge to roar and shout curses to the gods, or destroy his room in a petulant fit. He feels Sansa’s presence at his back like a beacon, luring him to meet her eyes. But he cannot; he will not. She wants only to try and reason with him, to bid him act sensibly.  If he allows her to catch his eye he will be handing her the reins to slip inside his mind. And he does not want to see reason, to be calmed or mollified or pitied. He wants this anger to burn bright and hot, to howl this pain out until it swallows him whole. After all he sacrificed for this union, to discover it was all a jest to the Lannister Imp is a bitter draft to swallow.

And now they expect him to jovially court the girl he believed to be a handmaiden, as though his feelings are of no consequence. There is a small part of him that knows it is not Myrcella’s fault; she is at the mercy of her family, just as he is. She must do as they bid. But that rational thought is squashed down by the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Right now, the whole pack of them are his enemies, and he is not ready to consider forgiveness. If Mother and Father were here he would be forced to stow his emotions; with them gone he can unleash them, without much thought of the consequences.

And perhaps he might need time to grieve the loss of an affection that was barely beginning to form, though he would never admit it.

There is no denying his pride has taken a knock. He is still an honest, honourable Northman, for all that Sansa has taught him about politics.  He is not a dog to teach tricks and call to heel. And he did not expect to be treated with this much guile. The Baratheons and Lannister Imp have used him ill; now they will know the full force of his displeasure.

Oh, he knows he cannot cast Rosamund- the real Myrcella- whoever she is- aside completely. His Father and the King himself brokered this engagement. But that does not mean he will sit idly by while they play their japes and snigger behind his back. He cannot cast her out of Winterfell. It does not mean he must remain in her presence.

“Think on the consequences, Robb,” Sansa pleads. “The smallfolk will say they drove you from your own castle.”

“I won’t spend the next five moons looking on her face,” He snarls, irrationally furious that she is not more angry on his behalf.

“Robb-” she begins again, but he finally loses control. In one swift movement, he snatches up a flagon and tosses it against the far wall. Watching with savage pleasure as the metal screeches on stone and ale pours down the wall.

“I will not,” he hisses, finally meeting his sister’s pale face.

Sansa flinches back from whatever manic look is gleaming in his eyes. Briefly, he feels the sting of shame, frightening his pregnant sister. None of this is her doing. She only wishes to mitigate the disaster, but he does not want to suppress his feelings over this. He swallowed them once, when his Father betrothed him to a little girl. He will not do it again after losing her. Having just begun to see her as someone he might someday care for deeply.

Sansa does not protest again. Not when he gives little Rickon control of Winterfell, under her and Maester Luwin’s charge. Not even when Tyrion Lannister approaches him and Robb simply barrels on. He shoves the little lord aside so hard that he topples over onto his stunted backside.

Robb loudly crashes out of the gate, leaving Winterfell behind in a clatter of hooves, spurring his horse on with strong heels. As the breeze whips through his hair, he lets himself enjoy the savage pleasure of reckless abandonment. Father was ever a stoic man, not the typical Stark wolf. Robb has long been considered as a follower in Ned Stark's footsteps, tempered by his Southron mother. It was a point of pride to him to behave as honourably as his Father, but there is more wolf-blood in him than anyone suspects. Maybe it is about time he revealed it so.

*

The ride to Greywater Watch takes longer than he hoped for. Sansa sent guards after him, of course. They insisted on some time at an inn, to properly rest and see the horses cared for. When they finally reach Moat Cailin, Jon is not surprised to see him. Sansa’s raven preceded him, naturally. Jon at least offers no false platitudes, only clasps Robb close in greeting. Shooting him worried, piteous looks when he believes Robb cannot see.

After copious amounts of ale, Robb’s rage turns to melancholy. He falls asleep in Jon’s solar, and wakes to find himself covered in warm furs. Ghost and Grey Wind are curled up about his feet and under his legs, which are still raised on the little leather footstool. Jon offers him a steaming mug of tea and a wry smile.

“I can’t persuade you to go home, can I?” Jon asks, settling into the opposite chair.

“Come this far haven’t I?” Robb retorts, “I agreed to those stupid rules as to not offend my new bride, with her Southron blood and royal family. Mother wouldn’t stop twittering about the insult it would be.”

Jon sighs heavily but says nothing, as Robb anticipated. The Master of Moat Cailin never likes to speak out against Lady Stark, no matter how cruel she was to him. Frankly, talking of his bastardy was mayhaps the only topic he is more silent on.

“Mother demanded I do something dishonourable out of respect for them,” Robb continues, “but they have lost the right to expect such dubious displays of respect from me.”

“If you do this, you cannot take it back,” Jon cautions, but Robb dismisses him with a shrug.

He has already made his decision, and refuses to contemplate any more craven acts. He presses a hand to his aching head, in an attempt to stem the throbbing there. He was far too deep into his cups the previous night, and has no one but himself to blame for the resulting discomfort.

Ghost sits up and settles his massive head in Robb’s lap, red eyes begging for attention. Robb obliges by dropping his spare hand into his fur, and rubbing his furry ears. It affords some measure of comfort, but not enough to sooth the bubble of rage that is even now beginning to boil up in his stomach.

There are those that would chide him for being so rash. Mother especially. Sansa would certainly call him a short-sighted fool. But they are not here, and even if they were, Robb would not suffer to listen. He has stayed his hand thus far, and all it brought was misery and humiliation.

*

In the marshes, she appears to him like a spectre through the mist. A distorted shadow only made distinct when almost close enough to touch. Robb finds himself floundering, at a loss for words, as he oft is in her presence. Meera offers him the echo of a smile, her thin lips pressed closed. Her bow is slung casually across her back, but he knows better than to dismiss the possibility of hidden weapons. At this distance, a dagger would not fail to miss its mark. Especially because he would not lift a hand to stay it. She has every right to be furious with him, after all he promised but failed to uphold.

“I did not think to find you here again. You said you would not come back,” she whispers, her lilting tone turning it into somewhat of a question.

“I was a fool,” he admits, “I let others dictate what was best for me.”

Meera lets out a small humming noise of acknowledgement, her warm brown eyes guarded. He feels the distance between them like a roaring river with no shallow stream to cross.

“And now?” She finally asks.

“Now I know that I need not be constrained by my parent’s wishes.” He quickly replies.

Robb is not ashamed of his pleading tone. He will never even find Greywater without her assistance. They will be lost to him forever, without her consent to return to the enigmatic castle he admired so much. He is entirely at her mercy, and the crannogmen were not known for their forgiving nature.

Meera only hums again, apparently unconvinced by his claim. But she advances closer at least, which means she is affording him a chance to make amends. She stops when they are close enough to share breath. Then she tilts her head back, thrusting out her chin, so that their eyes meet. She is enchanting, even in her hunting clothes, in the low light and gloom of a thick fog. Robb wants to tangle his fingers into her messy curls and tug her close. Bestowing kisses and words of affection upon her until she cannot help but succumb to his charms. He resists, knowing she will not welcome his advances, not now.

“I told you, it was not necessary for you to reveal any of it. That nothing need change for you.” Meera reminds him, “You were the one who insisted-”

“I know,” Robb cuts her off, “I know, and there are no words which could explain how sorry I am, to have broken my vow. A man can only admit when he has done wrong and beg forgiveness. Meera, I swear it was never my intention to go back on my word.”

“I would not name you for an oathbreaker, Robb Stark.” She counters, bitterly amused. “Just a disappointment.”

Stung, Robb absorbs the blow as though it were the sing of steel against his shield. There is worse she could charge him with, but she refrains, and he is pathetically grateful. He does not truly wish to know how much of a failure she considers him to be. Wordless, he only nods, willing to accept her chastisement. His gaze drops to the soggy grass at their feet.

“And if I were to lead you to Greywater, what assurances would you give me?” She asks plainly.

His head shoots back up, hope singing through his veins. For a long moment, he hardly dares to breathe, blinking back hot tears through sheer force of will.

“Anything you command. Meera, I would give you all that is in my power to give. I offer again what you once denied; my cloak and House and all that comes with it.” He pleads shamelessly, not willing to acknowledge his betrothal to House Baratheon is unavoidable.

Meera tilts her head in confusion, not so quick to forget. “And the Baratheon girl? Is she so easily set aside?”

Robb snorts unattractively. “She is not who she claimed to be. The Imp had me court an imposter, until he felt able to trust me with the real Princess. Then he trotted out the real girl, as though I should have been grateful for the deception. I’ll have no man treat me as a fool.”

“I see,” Meera glares, eyes flashing with a sudden wild fury. She takes a sharp step backward and hisses; “Your pride has been dented, so you come crawling back to the Neck for comfort.”

Robb is acutely aware that if the mists cloud her, he might never set eyes upon her again. Frantic, his hand snaps out free of his will, catching hold of her elbow.

“No, Meera-” he pleads, his grip is bruising. Aware his control is quickly slipping, he lightens his hold almost immediately, but does not let her go completely.

“Wait,” Robb begs, “I spoke hastily, please let me explain.”

“Perhaps I have heard enough,” she hisses back, her smooth skin hard as frozen stone.

“I do not love her, neither the imposter nor the Princess. Always, I thought of you… every smile and look and kind word I set upon her felt like a betrayal of my feeling for you.” Robb finally admits, not proud of his weak inability to shield his heart from this girl he cannot have.

In any case, Meera is not impressed, huffing and tugging hard enough to unsettle his hold on her. He releases her without a struggle; but Robb still forges on undaunted. Certain that beneath her stony exterior, she still cares for him. Perhaps unwillingly, and in spite of her best efforts. Yet he is determined to bring that care to the surface, dogged in his pursuit of the affection he knows she still harbours.

“I ached for you.” He declares, “But I made a solemn promise that I would at least try to forget our affection, and be mindful of her.”

“Then do as you promised, and try courting the actual girl.” Meera snaps, “Leave us in peace.”

“Meera, you cannot mean it,” Robb pleads, gently settling his hands atop her petite shoulders. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but please, don’t cast me aside without even a chance to make amends.”

She sighs heavily, her eyes fixed somewhere just past his left ear.

“If it were just myself to consider…” she whispers reluctantly, before visibly steeling herself against him. “But it is not.”

“I know,” Robb replies, equally quiet, “I promise, I am here to toy with no one’s affections. Please, Meera.”

Conflicted, she meets his blazing blue eyes. Finally, she affords him a short, sharp nod.

“On the condition we will have no more talk of marriage. We both know you cannot escape your betrothal so easily,” she chides.

Robb nods, though he is not yet resigned to his fate. Truthfully he would agree to almost anything she asked, if only she would take him back to Greywater Watch.

“And you will make no more promises you cannot keep.” Meera pleads, her beautiful brown eyes big and desperate, like a cornered doe.

Careful to move slowly, Robb slides his hands up from her shoulders, to rest on either side of her face. He gently tucks her curly hair behind her small ears, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to kiss her.

“I only wish to spend whatever time I can with you, and our son.” He says, solemn as any prayer he has ever made to the gods.

At long last Meera agrees, tilting her head back to accept his soft lips. Robb sighs blissfully against her mouth, wrapping one arm about her fur-clad back, to pull them into a close embrace. Her hands tangle into his hair as he loses all thought. Swallowed up and entirely consumed by a love he cannot keep.


	67. Ghost

THE NATURAL TRAVELLER

He senses _swift-brother_ before he scents him on the wind. His tail thumps and his jaw moves in a silent whine, and he circles his two-legs furiously, butting his head against thigh until he receives a good ear scratch for his trouble. Then he scampers away, down to the stone yard where the men dance with their metal fangs, pacing with agitation until the door is raised, and he can walk across the wooden bridge to the water-grass, darting between trees. 

He bounds restlessly through the water-grass until he picks up the scent of _swift-brother_ , following his snout until they can crash together, sniffing and snuffling and nuzzling joyfully, rubbing fur and exchanging greeting. _Swift-brother_ is healthy and warm and big, bigger than _silent-newfrost-bloodeyes_ himself. _Swift-brother_ rubs his head with the furry underside of his chin, nipping his ear in playful domienance until  _silent-newfrost-bloodeyes_ pushes him off and bares his teeth in retaliation.  _Swift-brother_  huffs, amused. He smells like _Mother_ and _voyager-sister_. He almost whines at the familiar scent.

He and his two-legs are far from their pack, the lone wolves in the water-grass. He does not like it here as much as he likes home-den, with its witching-stone and rich helpings of meat. He remembers curling about _Mother_ in a pile of his litter-mates, safe and warm, before he had a two-legs of his own. He used to sleep on the bed of _voyager-sister_ , until she put him on a wooden-horse and sent him to the sea-den and  _ice-brother_ , who shares a bond with  _silent-newfrost-bloodeyes_ that no other two-legs could be worthy of, not even _voyager-sister_. _Ice-brother_ is his other skin, his witching-half. They are one wolf.

 _Swift-brother_ is joined by the meat-rich scent of horses, and soon they are met by  _alpha-brother_ , who smells tired-melancholy-lone. Sour with sadness, not as potent as the bitter tang of illness, but not far from it. He whimpers a little at that, poking his cold nose into _alpha-brother's_ stomach, quickly joined by _swift-brother_ , as they circle around their unhappy pack alpha, twining their fluffy tails about his legs.

"Hello, Ghost," says _alpha-brother_ , petting his fur gently, "Come to lead us on to your master, eh? Not easy to navigate the Neck- you've my gratitude boy."

 _Silent-newfrost-bloodeyes_ huffs in assent, immediately setting off to return to new-den, back into the warmth where his own two-legs is waiting. _Swift-brother_ easily keeping pace by his side. Perhaps _alpha-brother_ needs the comfort only a litter-mate can bring, to make him merry again.

*

He and _swift-brother_ sleep curled about _alpha-brother_ , who is vulnerable in his sadness, away from his pack. It is worrying that alpha-brother wants to leave the safety of the den, and keep moving South. _Swift-brother_ nuzzles him gratefully, when he joins them on their journey, licking at his muzzle until he squirms away. He's not a pup anymore; he doesn't need help to clean himself. 

 _Alpha-brother_ orders them to stay back with the nervous horses and two-legs, and though his brother whines and paces, worried to leave his other skin alone in the deep water-grasses where lizard-lions dwell, _alpha-brother_ is the alpha for a reason, and they do as they are told.

Despite the lack of protection, _alpha-brother_ returns safely, with his mate. She greets them both warmly, and leads them to the wood-moss-earth den, where they are introduced to a huge surprise. A pup! And not just any; a two-legs pup, with the scent of _alpha-brother_ and his mate, the very first pup of their pack. _Alpha-brother_ has a pup of his own!  _Swift-brother_ woofs animatedly, as the two of them poke their heads above the wooden sleeping-box holding the pup off the cold stone ground. Tails wiggling and beating against the floor in a thumping rhythm of joy, as they greet their new pack-mate. 

The pup is small and pink, with a tiny tuft of brown fur on his head, and a healthy plump body with chubby little limbs. _Alpha-brother_ allows them a closer look, when he lifts his pup from the box and settles beside the fire with him. They press their snouts close, memorising the scent of him, licking at his tiny hands and head, until big blue eyes open to greet them.

 _Alpha's-mate_ strokes  _silent-newfrost-bloodeyes'_ fur, humming in approval of their acceptance of the pup. _Swift-brother_ bumps him with his shoulder, no doubt aware of the same truth; that soon there needs must be new wolves born to their pack, so that the new pup may share a skin with a companion-protector of his own.


	68. Rosamund

THE FRAGILE TRAVELLER

She didn't think it would be so difficult to watch Robb's halting courtship of Mrycella, after spending so long with him paying close attention to her. She had always known he was not intended for her, yet it was so easy to forget, when he smiled at her with those enchanting blue eyes twinkling down at her, framed by an attractive tumble of red curls. She caught him looking at her once or twice, now that he had returned to Winterfell.

Lady Sansa had done her best to smooth things over between the two households encased under one roof, but Lord Robb was stubborn. When Myrcella made the mistake of enquiring where he had gone, and which bannerman he had chosen to visit, his answer had been uncharacteristically bold and cruel.

"I believe the Dornish call it a paramour? A woman you love as though she were your wife, but for politics, isn't?"

Poor Mrycella hadn't known where to look, her face draining of colour whilst cousin Tyrion took a deep drink from his goblet of wine.

"I was urged to set her aside, so that my impending marriage would be free of complications, guile and dishonour. But since you and your family ruined all chance of that, my lady, I shall give you an honest answer. I spent these last few weeks in the arms of the woman I love, Lady Meera, who is also the mother of my firstborn son."

Cousin Tyrion started at that, choking and spluttering on his gulp of wine, clearly as uniformed of these scandalous facts as they were. Mrycella looked fit to burst into tears, humiliated, whilst kind Lady Sansa hissed out; "Robb!" Quickly followed by an apology to the Princess. Lord Robb took no notice, relieving the table of a pitcher of ale as he stalked out, quickly followed by Lord Theon.

It was the first time she heard Lady Meera Reed's name spoken, and as the years went on, Rosamund came to fervently wish it had been the last.


	69. Theon III

THE FORMER TRAVELLER

His wife had been acting strange; more distant than usual, worrying at her nail-beds and muttering to herself in moments she believed she was alone. It was too similar to his mother's odd behaviour not to be unnerving, and Theon wished not for the first time that he'd ridden after Robb to drag him back by his ear, if it would give his wife some peace of mind.

They endured weeks of him gone, the Baratheons and littlest Lannister growing agitated and irritating with it. Sansa spent her waking hours seeing to the needs of the smallfolk who came to petition her about broken fences and lost sheep, or kneeling in the godswood. One morn little Rickon came to Greyjoy Tower to inform him that Sansa refused to leave the godswood, despite the thick black rainclouds on the horizon. Rickon wanted to play with his sister and Shaggydog inside, miserable since Arya had promptly used Robb's departure as an excuse to invite herself to Bear Island. She'd wheedled permission from a distracted Sansa, taking Lyra Mormont as her guide. Leaving poor Rickon without any playmates, save Robin Arryn, who was a chore to be around at the best of times.

Theon stomped off to the godswood, placing Rickon in the care of Storm and his own beast, to carry his errant wife back into warmth and safety if he had to.

As usual these days, Sansa was kneeling before the heart tree, her head bent over in supplication, her face shrouded by a curtain of thick red hair. Still, most of her chin was visible, and he could see her lips moving in whispers even from a distance. Theon crept closer, hoping for a chance to eavesdrop on her ravings, in a effort to understand what was troubling her so.

The gods were smiling down upon him, for as he moved in close he heard the distinct phrase;

"...please let him forgive me, I did as I must, I had no other choice-"

enough to alarm him into making his presence known.

"Sansa?" he called, waiting for her to acknowledge him, and when she didn't, he continued; "I know you hear me, wife. What are you seeking forgiveness for?"

Reluctantly, slowly enough that he could see each ripple of her hair as it fell back from her face, Sansa tilted back to look him in the eye. Her own blue orbs were swimming in tears, and as he watched, perplexed, a single tear raced down her cheek and dripped from her face.

It was then that he was brought into her confidence, and Sansa revealed that she had known about the deception with the two girls all along.

*

It took all his strength to keep from blurting out the truth to Robb. He knew it would be of no use now, would only serve to drive a further wedge between brother and sister, Robb already bitter enough that Sansa wished him to be genteel and compassionate with the true Princess. He thought her too lenient with their guests, having not seen the frosty fury Sansa had directed at Tyrion Lannister, whenever the unfortunate Imp was in her presence. Sansa was doing her best to maintain peace and order, and protect them all.

It had not been easy to accept that Sansa had let his oldest friend be humiliated on purpose, though Theon now accepted her reasoning. She spoke of Cersei Lannister with a tremble in her voice, a mad Queen willing to use wildfire on her own kin to achieve her aims. The woman would stop at nothing to protect her children, Sansa swore. Robb could never marry Mrycella. When the inevitable war with the South came, Mrycella needed to be a hostage they could freely trade, whose protection and good treatment they could use to subdue Queen Cersei, if only for a time.

Sansa had realised the switch between the two girls after a week or so of suspicion, but had kept their counsel, in the hopes of genuine feeling growing between Robb and Rosamund. If Robb managed to be enamoured enough to call off his betrothal in favour of the Lannister girl, or at least make a fuss about wanting to do so, it would buy them some time to stall a wedding to the lioness' cub.

It was horrible to watch Robb descend into the depths of bitterness and petty jabs to make a small girl cry, but it was better than finding him murdered in his bed by some catspaw. Which Sansa swore Cersei would have done, if it meant releasing Mrycella from an unsuitable marriage. That was the point Theon focused on, whenever Robb taunted Sansa for not being able to 'See' a deception right under her nose.


	70. Robb IV

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

He woke up slowly, encased in familiar warmth, Meera’s naked body wrapped around his own beneath the furs. Robb’s face was nestled into her frizzy hair, inhaling the earthy scent of her, something like the fresh grass after the rain and the sunshine. The weight of her was wonderful. Robb slid his hands gently over her still-sleeping skin, resting reverently on her swollen stomach. He wasn’t able to see her this early on, in her first pregnancy; didn’t even learn about it until almost the end. This time, he got to stroke and caress her in the early stages, when she allowed him.

She snuffled in his arms, blinking awake slowly. Robb’s foolish grin was kissed away when she reached up to smooth the stubble on his cheek. Half-asleep still, Meera allowed herself to be rolled gently onto her back. Robb settled between her legs as though he was built to fit there. He mouthed at one swollen teat; no milk to be worried from the nipple yet, not for lack of enthusiasm. Robb moaned anyway, at the remembered sweetness. He won’t have to wait long to taste her again.

He slipped into her leisurely, swallowing her sharp inhale with his lips. He rocked gradually, bringing her to the edge painfully slowly, before letting her crash over it assisted by his fingers, worrying at her sensitive bud. She whined loudly, her fingers ranking through his curls. After, she laid boneless as sat back onto his heels, dragging her up by the hips until she rested on his lap.

Robb fucked like he meant it then, deep, powerful thrusts as she clenched around him, wet and tight. Her heels pressed into his lower back as she clung on. Her moans were are louder then; high and long as she screamed out her pleasure. Robb grinned lustily, squeezing her breast as she peaked again, before following her off the cliff with a grunt.

He was careful to collapse to the side of her, so as not to squash the babe still growing within her. They didn’t get long to bask in the afterglow. The door to her chamber slammed open with a thump. Robb was quick to throw the furs back over them, but not before Jojen Reed got an eyeful of their flesh.

The boy glared at him hatefully with his nephew, their son, in his arms.

“He’s been asking for you for hours,” The boy snarled, as though it wasn’t still early morn. As if they had neglected and abandoned their child.

Robb rolled his eyes at the dramatics, used to this level of contempt. The boy hated him for defiling his sister, and Robb can’t truly hold it against him. He would be the same. If he were in Jojen’s shoes, facing down Sansa or Arya’s lover, there would be more than just harsh words. Then again, when Robb first returned to the Neck during Meera’s first pregnancy, Jojen had socked him in the jaw so hard, he’d worn a shining purple bruise for weeks afterward. Robb respected him for it, much to Jojen’s chagrin.

Wulf immediately stuck his hands in his mouth after Jojen’s words, a clear sign he was afraid he had done something wrong. Jojen sighed heavily, but shuffled closer. Reluctantly, he deposited the boy in Robb’s outstretched arms. Meera rolled up onto her side so she could face them. She reached up with one hand to tickle Wulf’s foot, until he shrieked with laughter.

Mother was going to be furious when she found out Meera was with child again. She’d hit Robb too, when he was forced to tell her the first time. A strong smack across the face, right in the courtyard where anyone could see. She’d proceeded to shake him, as she cursed him for a fool and pummelled his chest with her fists until Father had dragged her off. He had been at a loss for words.

Robb had never seen his lady mother so incensed, reacting on instinct without decorum. And it reassured him that it appeared Father hadn’t either. Mother had stormed away to the Sept and refused to speak to him for days afterward. Robb really wasn’t looking forward to the entire process being repeated. Especially since Father was in the Capital, and wouldn’t be available to calm her this time.

Still, he couldn’t be sorry for the babe. Robb had always told himself he wouldn’t repeat Father’s mistakes, wouldn’t subject a child to what Jon had gone through. Though he’d failed on the first part, he’d managed the second. Wulf had several things Jon never had. A loving mother, most importantly. In the Neck, the crannogmen were used to scorn and derision, even from their fellow Northmen. It had made them become somewhat insular. They didn’t seem to care that Wulf was a bastard, more concerned that he was a crannogman, and therefore their responsibility to love and rear.

Robb pressed wet kisses to his son’s stomach, to enjoy the resulting giggles. It allowed Meera to slip from the bed first, but she didn’t bathe and dress herself as he had expected, wrapping herself in only a cloak. Robb raised an eyebrow in disbelief when she asked him to do the same. But he allowed himself to be dragged practically naked down to the river, at a spot that pooled into somewhat of a lake. The three of them whiled away the rest of the morn swimming, until servants came to present them with a picnic luncheon, and clothes.

Meera laughed at his expression of disbelief that this kind of behaviour was accepted enough to be expected. Robb kissed away her laughter, the two of them resurfacing to discover Wulf had found the blueberry cake, and had smothered half his face with it. Thankfully, there was enough left for them to enjoy a slice as food, rather than body paint.

“I wish it could be like this forever,” Robb confessed, “Sometimes I think about forfeiting my lordship, letting Winterfell pass to Bran.”

Meera levelled him with a look, the jovial expression wiped clean from her face. “Don’t say such things.”

“But why not? I can be a petty lord, here, with you. We could be married…”

“Stop it,” Meera snarled, immediately sore with him, as she always was when he mentioned marriage. “These are the fantasies of a child, not the words of a man with one son and another on the way.”

“Don’t belittle me!” Robb snapped, “If Duncan the Small can give up the Iron Throne, why can’t I give up my father’s seat? He has two other heirs!”

“It’s not just Winterfell you would sacrifice!” Meera wailed, suddenly on her knees before him, holding his face between her hands. “Promise me you will forget this foolishness. That you will not do this.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Robb said stubbornly. “It’s my life. I don’t need the North; I’d rather have you.”

“Petulant boy,” Meera hissed, “The North needs you as its King in the wars to come.”

Robb felt his stomach drop, his head freeze as though he had eaten something cold too quickly. Sansa and now Meera; would women never stop proclaiming him the future King in the North?

“Who have you been talking to?” Robb demanded.

He was suddenly afraid that Sansa’s words had spread this far South. Who else knew, and what plots were afoot because of it? Was there time to consider counter moves, or would they be caught unawares if Robert Baratheon rode North at whispers of treason.

Meera eyed him regretfully, as though sorry for her words, or maybe just for speaking them.

“Jojen,” she said simply, which was no answer at all, and Robb told her so.

Which is how Robb came to learn the grumpy boy, his goodbrother in all but name, spoke to the old gods through the weirwoods. A greenseer, Meera called it. He wanted to scoff, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose as she described Robb as a great King, his family stretching their alliances across the realm to make themselves safe. Jojen had seen it in the trees; just as Sansa had described, all those years ago.


	71. Ramsay VI

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Robb Stark was clearing out Winterfell, in preparation for war. The trechery of the lion Queen had been brought to light, and Stark had wasted no time in securing his assets. Making hostages out of his previous guests and former betrothed. Splitting the Lannister-Baratheon men into small, manageable groups, so that they could not conspire and mount an escape attempt. Ramsay had hoped that perhaps Tyrion Lannister would be sent to the Dreadfort, so that he might have the chance of playing his games with the ugly little dwarf. But instead, they had been lumped with guardsmen and soldiers of little note, Westermen with names like Lefford, Farman, Prester and Serrett.

The only one  of any mild importance they had been sent was Podrick Payne, a relation to Robert Baratheon’s Justice, and therefore off-limits. He had been Tyrion Lannister’s page, and now he was to be Dom’s. But his brother already had one, in the form of Brandon Stark.

“A man only really needs one page to pour his wine and brush his horse,” said Dom, “You’re a knight now, you should take him.”

Ramsay didn’t need to be told twice; a little manservant to attend to his whims, and solidify his standing as a Northern knight, no less than any other? He had the boy quartered next to Bran Stark, and outfitted in the same way. And Dom's influence ensured that the boy was treated no different than the obedient page boy of Stark blood.

Despite being the get of arrogant Southron fucks, Pod was so quiet that Ramsay joked he was as tongueless as his infamous relative, but the boy barely cracked a smile. He was not without humour however, quick to grin when Bran performed his antics, or Dom praised his service. Ramsay got into the habit of of praising him also, keen not to be outdone by his Vale-trained, chivalrous brother. Pod was his page, and should therefore come to him with all queries and considerations.

He endeavoured to be approachable, and got into the habit of taking Pod everywhere he went. Except the dungeons; the one time he had tried, the boy had stared, wide-eyed and trembling at the filthy, disgusting inhabitants, and Ramsay knew at once he was not showcasing the best the Dreadfort had to offer. He sent the boy to the kitchens instead, to eat a pastry and forget about the prisoners in the cells, some of whom were disobedient Southrons. Those who had attempted to escape Sansa Greyjoy's iron decree of labour and Sept, and were now for the Watch.

The former Stark girl was set to rule Winterfell as her smallest brother's Lady Protector, and to hear the Lannister men talk of it, she was a despot who would go mad with power. The Northmen thought her uncompromisingly admirable and doted on her every command. Though Lady Sansa had a small son to coddle, she never neglected her duties as the elected Stark in Winterfell, and while Robb Stark focused on his troops and war tactics, had assigned all the hostages to build store-houses or farming duties. Ensuring that the harvest would be safely brought in, even though most Northmen were making the necessary arrangements, ready clear out and ride South with Robb Stark.

Father was in attendance at Winterfell, as Robb Stark selected his commanders and captains, having been given leave to make military decisions in a raven sent by his Father. Ned Stark had called the banners, while his small force was currently trapped in the Vale alongside Robert Baratheon's men. The two leaders were shored up by Jon Arryn's gigantic mounted army of Vale knights. They were to meet with Lannister forces in open battle before the fortnight was through. The Northern host could never hope to meet them in time, but Ned Stark felt confident with their Arryn numbers, and had ordered Robb Stark to amass a generous army, not what could be cobbled together in a matter of days, and wait to march until the outcome of the first battle was clear.

The boy had done as he was told, so Ramsay and Dom were drilling with the other soldiers daily, in preparation to meet whatever force Tywin Lannister could muster, after the Vale was done with him.

*

Ramsay had new armour, plate and mail made by Winterfell's brute of a smith. Pod had been diligent in learning the fastenings of the clasps and buckles of his new armour, polishing it to a high shine so that it looked tournament-ready whenever Ramsay desired to wear it. He needed to get used to fighting it, for it was far heavier than his usual boiled leather, so he wore it most days. There were whispers among the camp that the boy who made it was Robert Baratheon's bastard, and he had done nothing to dissuade them, carrying about his warhammer and throwing it about with lethal accuracy in the practice yard. Ramsay pitied the unlucky fucks that met the end of it, likely to have all their bones shattered in whichever limb was crushed beneath its bulbous head. 

The Northmen sparred with one another happily, gleeful to have the chance to test their mettle against one another. Ramsay practised on the best fighters he came across, particularly the giant, thick-set ones like the Smalljon and the Flint brothers. Tywin Lannister's mad dog, Gregor Clegane, was known for cutting smaller men in half. Ramsay at least wanted to give himself a fighting chance against men of such stature.

Myranda practiced with her bow daily, skewering hay targets and probably imagining they were Ramsay, for he had forbidden her from riding to war like a wildling spearwife. He needed her at the Dreadfort, making sure Gwyn wasn't too soft on the remaining populace, who were left behind to see to the castle's upkeep and work what small farmland they were able to till.

Merik didn't understand all the hubbub, their small babe disturbed by the loud sounds of a garrisoned army and near-constant drills in the daylight hours, raucous men drinking and exchanging stories every night. Ramsay would find it odd to be without his wife and son on the path Southward , having grown used to them heavily involved in his daily routine. It would be strange not to fall asleep beside Myranda, or strain to hear words in Merik's merry gurgles. 

But Ramsay's blood sung for battle, baying for sport. He longed to rip the entrails from men and listen to their howls as he cleaved off limbs. He was going to make a name for himself on the battlefield; if the poncy Southron fops insisted on believing them to be barbarians, Ramsay would earn the brutal reputation. 

Truly, he was more than ready to make war on the prideful Lannister cunts,  with Dom by his side, and it would be joy to cut them down together. Then perhaps Father would think better of him, and be less quick to demean him. 


	72. Robert

THE IMPATIENT TRAVELLER

Robert watches his namesake settle into his chair, the youth broader than when last he saw him. Yet still far slender than he had been at his age. No true warrior, by the look of him, though whispers of his ability on the battlefield would say otherwise. The steel blue of his gaze seems darker in the candlelight. There’s no look of his father about him, not in his colouring, at least. But the cut of his jaw as it clenches, yes, perhaps there is a little of Ned there. It’s only for his sake that Robert doesn’t reach over the table between them and cut this meeting short with a tap to the boy’s cheek; one that would surely break his jaw.

Stannis warned him to keep his temper in check. Renly, too. They need the boy’s army. Apparently well-trained, for supposed Northern barbarians. His numbers even include the man-eating Skaggs and savage crannogmen. The Northmen are better fed from their Essosi supplies, versus Robert’s hungry army. His supply lines from the Reach are still being hounded by the Mountain.

The Northmen have only taken part in skirmishes in the Riverlands, driving Tywin Lannister to flee South again. After the bloodshed, instead of taking his men to join his King, this boy had pulled them back, North of the Neck. Leaving only a token force to sure up his kin in the Riverlands. It was not to be borne. If Tywin gained the backing of the Iron Bank, they’d be up to their arses in foreign sellswords before long. The Lannisters need cutting down before that could happen.

Robb Stark regards him coolly, before pouring himself a goblet a wine. The balls on this one! Robert reluctantly admired the boy’s ability to stare him down without giving ground. Eventually, the silence is too oppressive to hold off. It doesn’t seem like making the boy wait is cowing him at all, so Robert growls:

“We’ll be needing your men a little further South, boy. Don’t you want to avenge your Father?”

“Aye, of course,” says Robb, “But Jaime Lannister’s head on a spike won’t bring him back. There’s other things I desire, aside from revenge.”

“What’d that be?” Robert ponders facetiously, well aware of what the boy had written in his answering letter, after Robert demanded he attend him. “Power and glory, and to name yourself King.”

“I am a King,” Robb Stark said simply. “The King my people want and need. I’ve more right to a throne than you at any rate; my ancestors were Kings for thousands of years. Your Grandmother was a Targaryen, and you think it gives you leave to hold dominion over us all? Handing the reins of power to the Lannisters, so you can drink and whore? While Jon Arryn does his best to counteract your frivolous spending? No. No longer.”

“You carry on this road, you’ll be in open rebellion against the Iron Throne.” Robert warns, feeling his blood rise. “When I’m done skinning lion pelts, I’ll turn North, and gain me some fine wolf fur.”

Robb’s eyes twinkled with ill-hidden mirth. Was the little fuck going to laugh at him? Stannis be damned, if he dared, Robert would break his arms and leave him for a cripple.

“Will you?” Robb purrs. He did not raise his voice, but something about the gentle lilting tone was edged with steel. “How well do you think your men would navigate the Neck? If they manage to avoid the swamp, lizard-lions and crannogmen, and make it back to the Kingsroad, do you know what they must pass?”

He doesn’t give Robert the chance to respond, the arrogant shit.

“Moat Cailin.” Robb crows with triumph. “The seat of my brother, Jon Snow. Do you think he’d suffer your men to pass? He could live for years under siege, with supplies from the North side of the keep. You’d never get around it.”

“Maybe so,” Robert grunts, “Or maybe he’d let me through for a chance at being Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell.”

The boy did laugh then, hard and cruel. “You don’t know my brother. He’d rather slit his own throat.”

Robert clenched his fists, and resisted the powerful urge to upend the table with a roar. Instead, he refilled his own goblet and didn’t speak again until the cup was drained.

“And what if I bypassed the Neck entirely? Took my ships, set a course for the North and razed your barren ground, leaving not a scrap of wood fit for kindling?”

Robb Stark raised a single eyebrow at him, taking a delicate sip from his own wine.

“Your ships have already met the Lannister fleet in open combat, repeatedly. Do you really think what remains of the combined Baratheon-Redwyne fleet could stand up against mine?”

Robert chuckled. “Yours? Every fool knows the North has no ships, boy.”

“Had.” The would-be King corrects him, “The North had no ships. I’ve built a few since my Father left me in charge of the North. Bought a few more. But you’re right, the bulk wouldn’t truly be mine. Or had you forgotten my sister is married to Theon Greyjoy?”

He hadn’t, but he’d never anticipated it would one day matter this much. Damn the boy, and damn the squids, too.

“Your ships have already been decimated by wildfire and combat. Do you think they will stand up against the might of the Greyjoy fleet?” Robb asks softly, tilting his head to one side.

Defeated, Robert sags back into his chair, no small amount of awe on his face when he considers the boy in front of him. Younger than he was, when he defeated the Dragon Prince, and overthrew the Mad King. For a time, no one would have dared stand against him, or incur his wrath. Now Robb Stark is going to gain a kingdom from him, without even shedding blood. It was a feat to be commended, if Robert could see past his fury.

“Your Father will be rolling in his grave. Would that he could see the traitorous whelp he seeded.” Robert says, hoping the words will sting, even if they won’t be enough to push the boy from his chosen path.

Robb shrugs. “I see no betrayal here. I never swore fealty to you. My ancestors knelt to the dragons, but the dragons are gone. My Father was a good man, an honourable one. By all accounts, you are a drunkard lecher, who repeatedly forswore his marriage bed. One of your numerous bastards is a member of my household, did you know that?”

Robert did know, but he’ll not give the boy the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

“My Father was always loyal. But you did little to earn that loyalty from him, and nothing to gain it from me.” Robb Stark states flatly. “I’ll subject my people to your careless folly no longer.”

“Have a care how you speak to me,” Robert hisses, half-rising from his chair, his pride battered enough. “Think your men could make it in here, before I crack your skull like an egg between my fists?”

A growl cuts through the air between them then. Robb Stark doesn’t even look round as his massive wolf invades the tent, padding to his side with loping, predatory steps. Spittle is drooling from the beast’s slavering jaws, sharp teeth glinting through the gloom.

“I don’t know about my men,” Robb shrugs, “But I know Grey Wind could rip out your throat before you lay a hand on me.”

Robert eyes the ferocious wolf, and supposes it is probably true. He doesn’t feel apt to test it. He’s not as quick on his feet as he once was. Too much fine food and wine.

“What is it you want?” He sighs, settling back into his seat. Stannis would be proud, he thinks, of how well he’s kept his fury in check.

Robb Stark lays a hand on the direwolf’s neck, smoothing down his fur until his hackles drop.

“You’ll sign an official decree, stating the North is a free and independent Kingdom, governed by our own laws and practices. Our territory will extend from the Wall to the Southern end of Riverlands-”

“The Riverlands?” Robert bellows, “Think I’ll let you steal another Kingdom from under me, do you?”

Robb Stark barely blinks, his face still serenely placid. Robert wants nothing more than to ruffle his feathers, thump him and be done with it. The direwolf snarls at him, as though it knows his thoughts.

“Edmure Tully is dead,” Robb informs him, as if he did not already know. “His only child betrothed to my brother. Bran is squire to Ser Brynden Tully, and eligible for the seat of Riverrun, through our mother’s blood. I’ll not leave him undefended, nor have his fealty torn between Kings.”

Robert pales, taking another generous swill of wine. This boy would squeeze blood from a stone, alright.

“Anything else?” He snarls.

“The Iron Islands.” Robb says, “That’s all the territory I want; nothing you’d miss terribly. We can renegotiate the borders of the Riverlands. You could extend the Crownlands, to where the Westerlands meet the Reach just above the Goldroad, if you wish.”

Robert grunts, but it’s not a bad bargain really. Better than a dissenting Lord Paramount, brother to a rival King, that he could never trust.

“What’ll I get in return?” He snaps, irritated that the negotiation is thus far one-sided.

“If my fighting men and fleet aren’t enough, I’ve a proposition that’ll give you something you’ve always wanted.” Robb offers.

Robert barks out a laugh. Unless the boy can raise his Lyanna from the dead, he doubts that very much.

“Tying House Baratheon to House Stark.”

That is something he’s long desired. But the Lannister bitch has ensured it will likely never happen. Robb Stark sounds assured of himself, however. Robert is willing to hear more, if it will turn the conversation away from land he is going to lose.

“My second sister is in love with your true son, though he’s not trueborn. Legitimise him so they can marry, and you’ll gain your wish,” suggests Robb.

Robert blinks at that, thrown. He winces to think what Jon Arryn and the Queen of Thorns would say, if he suggested his blacksmith bastard be named a Prince.

“He’ll not be in line for the throne,” he starts, but Robb waves his concerns away.

“Make him last in succession, behind any children you and your Tyrell Queen might have, your brothers, and their children. He’d expect nothing less. I only ask you gift him a token keep in the Stormlands, somewhere currently empty, with no heirs to claim it. They’ll likely not want to leave the North, regardless.”

Robert considers it. An heir to fall back on, should he have no actual trueborns with the Tyrell girl, and his brothers produce no sons. He could do worse than the lad. The realm had certainly dealt with worse. Gendry was strong enough to wield a hammer at least, and free from madness.

Robert nods, and Robb Stark bestows him a smile.

"One last thing. The Five Kingdoms-" Robert almost grinds his teeth like Stannis, hearing that, but the boy plows on, unheeding, "-will start taking their responsiblities to the Night's Watch seriously. Sending adequate men, supplies and weapons."

"Seems to me, the Wall will be in your territory now, why should I bother with it?" Robert asks, furiously.

"Because if you don't, I won't tie our Houses." Robb smirks, "Robert Arryn is in Riverrun. I'll have my sister marry him instead of your bastard son. Then I'll take the Vale for mine own, as well."

 _Bugger me, Ned,_ Robert thinks. _What kind of fiend did you raise?_ The dead have no answers for him.

"Fine," he grinds out, impatient to be done with it.

“Should we call in the others, to discuss our assault on Casterly Rock?” Robb asks innocently, “I don’t know about you, but all this talk makes me hungry for action.”

Robert can understand that. “Aye lad,” he agrees. “We’ll gather the rest, and see if we can’t rout out that withered Old Lion before the year is through.”

The direwolf sits then, settling its massive head upon its forelegs, as though understanding the need for animosity is done. Robb Stark never stops petting it, supremely at ease with the brutal beast.

Robert is eager to taste blood again. Ned is gone, the world a darker place for it. But he’ll have a Stark by his side, a wolf with teeth it seems. Perhaps it will be enough.


	73. Daryn II

THE RESOLUTE TRAVELLER

He'd taken an arrow to the calf in the skirmishes against Tywin Lannister's outriders. It didn't penetrate the skin too deeply, a clean wound that could be flushed with hot wine and stitched cleanly, but it was enough to make him useless as an infantry man. And though there were spare horses enough to add him to the cavalry, he had been relegated to sentry, once he was fit to walk. It wasn't such a bad position in the Riverlands, where the land was soft, grassy and easy to ride or run across. He had lately received word from Jory, a raven sent to Riverrun, excited to inform Daryn he was to be a father. Excellent news, and it bolstered morale, just when they needed it most. They had lately been informed that Lord Stark had died on the battlefield. 

Young Robb had been devastated, the rest of his forces not much better. The mountain clansmen had roared out their fury, demanding to march South immediately to cleave Jaime Lannister's head from his shoulders, but Lord Robb would not hear of it. Lord Snow had wanted to lead a more covert mission; a kidnap or assassination attempt on the Kingslayer. An infiltration mission, to break Tywin Lannister's morale, held under the cover of darkness. This too had been rejected, as too dangerous. But Lord Robb had been inspired by the idea of a night time raid. 

He had ordered the decimation of a Lannister encampment, cutting men down in their beds and destroying the host before they could gather their wits, setting fire to their tents and scattering their horses into the forest, scaring off their means of escape. Then the Northern army had pulled back, all of it, safe behind the natural borders of the swamp Neck. There they had been welcomed upon the few riverside marshes fit to hold wooden houses high up on sticks, the curious little crannogmen inviting them into their homes. The greatest lords were hosted upon the floating castle of Greywater Watch, which was currently bobbing beside the small settlement. Of course, it would be impossible to host a group the size of the Northern army entirely in a swamp. 

A sizeable force had remained in the border of the Riverlands, hidden behind the stone fortress of Seaguard. It was a way back from the Kingsroad; far enough that Robert Baratheon would not suspect, nor go out of his way to look for them there. Some lords had argued that their separated force should be hidden closer to the Neck, hosted by Houses Frey, Erenford and Vypren. But Lord Robb did not agree. He did not trust the greedy Freys not to be swayed by Lannister gold. And he had been warned by his sister, the one they said spoke to the gods, never to take guest right from them nor be hosted on their lands. Lord Robb took the warning seriously. Since both Houses Erenford and Vypren held marriage alliances with House Frey, the bulk of the separated Northern host, lead by Galbert Glover, were at Seaguard. Protected by House Mallister, loyal Tully bannermen and no friends of the Freys. The rest were floating offshore, in the ships the young wolf had commissioned to be built at White Harbour, some eight moons ago.

Now, they awaited Robert Baratheon's arrival to treat with Lord Robb. Their commander had decided not to fight alongside the King, unless some changes were made in the manner the Seven Kingdoms were overseen. Lord Robb had given a rousing speech two days ago, just before Daryn had been sent off on his latest sentry duty. Denouncing Robert Baratheon's lax method of ruling. He claimed only a fool could not notice a bitterness of a treacherous, scheming wife, and the lickspittles of the Southron court, who fed his ego all while swindling the Crown. Only a fool could not notice: a fool or a drunk, and decent men should not place their trust in either. Was that the kind of man they desired for a King?

"It was the dragons my ancestor knelt to- an honourable man wanting only to protect his people, from the madness and tyranny of those who would wield dragonfire against innocents! But the dragons are gone," bellowed Lord Robb, before leaving the men to sleep on his words and mull them over.

Daryn would not be privy to any outcome of the reconvening of the lords that happened the following morn, as it was his turn to watch out for enemy scouts or movement. But Lord Robb's words had given Daryn much to think on, as he floated about on a small crannog, and made camp beside a gnarled tree with its roots soaked in bog-water. Kept company by his sentry-duty companion, Algar. Algar was a crannogman: small and lithe with a head of rich honey-blonde curls, and the longest moustache Daryn had ever seen. He was missing his three smallest fingers on his left hand, and most of his right ear, but Daryn had never seen anyone wield a spear or stick with such righteous ferocity, nor would he ever. Algar was as secretive as all crannogmen, and when asked his House or Clan name, he had only replied; "I am of moss and reed and oak-tree" mysteriously. Daryn had promptly called him Ser Moss, and the name had stuck. 

They had become firm friends, whiling away the time in pleasant conversation, describing their childhoods in very different parts of the North. Algar spoke of losing his fingers to a lizard-lion before his mother had saved him, by opening up the beast from neck to belly, spilling its innards all over Algar. Daryn talked of nights spent sleeping below the stars and the first time he had ever encountered a bull moose in the Hornwood, the sigil of his House.

His injured leg continued to heal, enough to stand and stretch and sit in comfortable silence in the grim drizzle, beside Algar, awaiting their relief. Besides a deer that came close enough to shoot, which they gutted ready to take back to camp, nothing of import happened. When Ethan Forrester and his own crannogman came to relieve them on the morn of the third day, he had a bright smile on his face that the miserable weather could not dim. When asked what news he had, Ethan was coy and teasing, and would not say anything other than the freedom of the North was at hand.

The atmosphere at camp was as jovial as Ethan had been, before Daryn and Algar even made their fresh kill of good meat known. 

"Whatever is going on?" Daryn asked the passing Lord Umber, "Is Lord Eddard alive after all?" for one moment wild with hope.

"Nay lad," boomed the Greatjon, "nothing so fortunate as that."

Daryn received a slap on the shoulder so hearty that he almost stumbled and slipped in the mud. 

"We've decided to free ourselves from the yoke of the South, lad! Unanimous agreement from all the lords that matter, and Lady Maege o'course. No more fucking flowery summer Kings! We know no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark!"

"The King in the North!" bellowed another man, some distance away, and within minutes, hundreds had taken up the chant.

A King in the North, after three hundred years? Daryn grinned broadly, sharing his incredulous look of surprise with Algar, infected by the raucous joy of the others. Robb Stark was a brilliant commander; Daryn would be proud to serve him and name him for a King.


	74. Ramsay VII

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay woke in stages of bitter cold as though the thrice-damned Others were gnawing on his limbs, sucking the very marrow from his bones along with all the warmth. He slipped into sleep like plunging into frigid water, but when the darkness threatened to keep him, something always dragged him back to the surface. This happened repeatedly, until at last he woke lucid enough to realise he wasn’t alone. At first he thought the chest providing a furnace of heat for his back belonged to Dom, but he quickly realised the flesh wasn’t defined enough. Dom was hard, compact muscle with little pillowy fat to be found. The arms around him belonged to someone more soft. Pod.

Ramsay groaned heavily, trying to recall the events that would result in him bedding down with his squire like a poor hedge knight. His memory of the battle was fuzzy, his head still too clogged from milk of the poppy, no doubt. He slipped back into sleep before he could find a satisfactory answer.

He’d ended up with Podrick Payne as a squire, the same way he’d become a knight; it was all Dom’s idea. When Father had granted him leave to marry Myranda, Dom had insisted on knighting him. Southron knights could chose their name, and it would give Ramsay the chance to shake off the hated bastard name of Snow, so as not to pass it down to his son. There were no official knighted bastard names in the North, like Longrivers or Unflowers or any other ridiculous name in the South.

Ramsay had eventually settled on the name Redbolt, as it referenced the House from whence he came, and the Red Kings the Lords of the Dreadfort descended from. It took some getting used to, but gradually the name became a skin that fit him well. His son was named with the same principles in mind; Merik, for Myranda and Domeric. And Podrick was very good with the babe.

After the Lannisters screwed themselves out of favour with the Southron crown, Robb Stark had a whole contingent of Lannister bannermen in his castle he wanted separated and contained. He was adamant they were to be hostages, and not prisoners in any dungeon. When the Westerlands were conquered, these hostages could be used to bargain with the households they had come from. So a possey of Lannister bannermen had been shunted to the Dreadfort, the nervous, pudgy Podrick Payne being one of them. Domeric had pushed Ramsay to accept him as a page, since he was one of the more prestigious highborns from the group. The rest of the hostages they had acquired were simple guardsmen from low, masterly houses and the like.

The boy, Podrick, was Tyrion Lannister’s former page, and unreasonably quiet. It became a game, to get Pod to impart an opinion. Ramsay, who already enjoyed the sound of his own chatter immensely, talked in even greater amounts in an effort to garner response. Pod was shy, but not clumsy or lackwitted, and immensely gentle, even in the face of his fears or battle. And he was kind to Merik, who was a slow child.

No one would describe Ramsay as a patient man, and he had never been gentle. He was mindful of Merik’s young age and inability to understand what was expected of him, but at times frustration got the best of him. However, Ramsay had vowed to himself that his own child would never feel belittled and besieged by his father, as Roose had done to him. Instead of tormenting his own child, Ramsay took his anger out on prisoners, servants or in dangerous games with Myranda, depending on his mood. Neither of them were kind people, but as much as they could love, they loved their son.

In future years, Ramsay would be especially glad that Podrick had found his way to the Dreadfort. The Bolton master-at-arms was not half as inclined to be tolerant, of the extra assistance and training which Merik required to keep up, as Pod was. Ramsay's son wasn’t a simpleton by any means, but he needed repeated teaching to grasp a method, and did not make leaps of intuition on his own. Pod would come to spend a lot of time sparring with Merik, with wooden swords, and was always encouraging. Ramsay would watch from the shadows occasionally, and wonder how any man could be so unfailingly caring all the time, without discernable motive. But all that was to come later.

When Ned Stark called the banners, Ramsay took Podrick Payne South, knowing the boy had no close family, and no reason to feel deep regard for the place of his birth. The Boltons had treated him well, and it was reflected in the competent, heedful application of his duties. He cared for Ramsay’s belongings carefully, and outfitted him for battle well. Still, Ramsay had never expected to owe the boy his life.

Their skirmishes with Lannister men in the Riverlands had ended in the bleakest time in his life. Myranda had followed him to war, cloaking herself in the garb of a camp follower to avoid detection until it was too late. They had travelled too far to safely send her back by the time she revealed herself, and Ramsay was furious when she refused to stay in an allied castle. The best he could manage was to confine her to his tent when he went into battle, and assign her a guard. Naturally, she flouted that, and joined the archers, being better with the bow than most of them.

After the first two frays, he stopped bothering. Besides, there was nothing quite so satisfying as fighting alongside his wife in actual battle. When splattered in the entrails of their enemies, their blood was up, and they would fuck like rabid beasts. They garnered quite a reputation for themselves. It was a sight to see a beautiful woman and her lord husband fighting in tandem, but it was not worth the price they paid. 

The fight was done; a pathetic skirmish not worth writing to the Dreadfort to tell Gwyn about, making the outcome all the more horrific. A arrogant Southron fuck got his hands on a crossbow after their commander had surrendered. Ramsay didn’t see it, no one save for Myranda seemed to. A strangled voice denounced them as Northern savages, and then his wife was shoving him aside, out of the path of the loosed bolt. It skewered her flesh like a knife through pork. She crumpled to her knees, blood pouring from her mouth like the gush of a brook. Ramsay had her cradled in his arms before he could understand what was happening. The arrow had pierced her chest below her heart, not immediately fatal, but a mortal wound nethertheless.

“Ramsay,” she gasped, bubbles of blood popping at the edge of her purple-painted lips.

“Shhh,” He hushed her, unknowingly rocking her back and forth in an effort to comfort her. It did nothing to help with the pain. Behind them a scuffle was taking place, as the man who shot her was descended upon by furious Northmen. Domeric broke the man’s jaw with one blow of his fist, but Ramsay was deaf to it all.

“Do you remember, when we met?” She panted out, in great heaving gulps of air and agony.

She had been five years old, he just a little older. She had been the new kennel master’s daughter. Her hair was a bird’s nest of tangles, her dress no better than rags. She smelt of wet dog. And she had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he told her so.

She smiled at that, more of a grimace. “I was a peasant. You moulded me into something more. I owe you everything.”

He shook his head, clinging to her as though he could keep her if he held on tight enough.

“Not this, never this.” He denied, but she only smiled her bloody, ghastly smile. Ramsay was vaguely aware of Dom dropping down on her other side, clutching her shaking hand.

“Take care of our boy,” she whispered, and Ramsay lurched forward to kiss her, feeling her lips weakly press back against his before she shuddered out her last breath, and died.

Though he was too gone to hear it, he howled like a dog with a limb cleaved off, blinded by tears as he screamed out his fury and rage into the unfeeling night. He knew Dom by touch alone, too submerged beneath grief to see him, recognising the scent of his brother beneath the dirt and sweat and copper tang of blood. Dom gathered him close like he was a babe, cradling Ramsay’s head to his chest, so that he might hide from the truth for a moment. So that he could shriek and wail and bawl somewhere safe. 

After Myranda’s death, he became reckless in the extreme. What little mercy he had inside him had died with her. After disembowelling and flaying the cunt that killed her, leaving him alive long enough to hang from a cross and set alight, something in Ramsay shattered. He garnered a reputation for insane brutality on the battlefield, so much that Robb Stark was wary of deploying him. Soon enough, those that met him in battle regularly threw down their arms rather than face him, after seeing what he had done to their comrades. He was rarely in a charitable enough mood to take prisoners, however, so they were often afforded a clean death for the simple reason that he preferred a challenge.

It was no surprise that he would push himself to his body’s limits, catching a dangerous chill that might have left his son an orphan, were it not for Pod. The youth was diligent, and there couldn’t be too many men willing to share a bed with Ramsay Redbolt, providing naked body heat, even when a maester ordered it so. But Pod was never one to shirk his duties. Which was why Ramsay found himself lying like a defiled maiden in his squire’s arms. 

When he rolled to face the still sleeping boy, he found that sometime during the war, Podrick had become a man grown. He’d shed his puppy fat over the hard march South, with the long hours training at the pike and sword and bow, though he wasn’t skilled in any of them. Pod wasn’t truly skilled in anything, unless you counted compassion as a skill, and Ramsay never had.

Pod blushed to find himself under scrutiny upon waking, and Ramsay was distantly horrified to feel himself stir at it. Ramsay was attracted by strength, or screaming. He did not arouse at gentle Southrons that blushed at coarse language, and until lately had been doughy with layers of blubber. Ramsay resisted the urge to kick the younger boy from his bed. Knowing that he probably owed his life to his squire.

Denying it didn’t make the bizarre attraction go away. There was something about Pod that was so distinctively gentle, in a way that Bolton men, indeed all Northmen, were not. Men of the North were gruff and hardy and didn’t sigh when their Southron squires kneaded out the aches in their muscles.

“Why do you care so much?” He asked of Pod, when he later caught the boy spoon-feeding a peasant child with his hands wrapped in thick bandages.

Pod shrugged, as was his wont when words could be avoided. Ramsay clucked, not content with that answer, and spent the remainder of his day following his squire about. There wasn’t much of interest to be found in the swamp Neck, as they waited for Robb Stark to order them South again. The Northern army had been pulled back until Robert Baratheon conceded to their demands. Pending that, Ramsay had nothing to distract him from his grief but encouraging letters from his step-mother, and Pod’s strange habits.

“They have no one watching over them. No one that cares if they live, or die.” Pod said, in a quiet moment, as they sat together and watched the sun set below the boggy horizon. “I know what it is to feel that.”

Ramsay shrugged. That was the general state of life, he found. The gods didn’t care if they lived or died, and neither did most people, unless they wanted something from you. He opened his mouth to say so to Pod, who fixed him with one of his soft looks before he could get a word out.

“It costs nothing to provide them with a little comfort. A piece of hope.”

“You’re giving them a false expectation. That in the future, they will encounter men as chivalrous as our doe-hearted Podrick Payne. They won't.”

Pod frowned. “I prefer to believe they might carry a good deed with them. Perhaps provide the same to another in need, repaying the kindness in some manner.”

Ramsay sighed heavily and fixed his eyes back on his surroundings, ever-wary of being set upon by lizard-lions.

“You’re too gentle, Podrick.” He bemoaned, “It will be the death of you.”

He tugged the boy to stand, and with the darkness to conceal them, kissed him to see what that goodness might taste of. Pod let out of muffled yelp of protest or confusion, hands fluttering about Ramsay’s chest, as though unsure if he could push him away without incurring consequence. After a long moment, Ramsay stepped back and licked his lips. Pod was blinking in stupefaction, but still his face was placid, unsullied by grudges or bitterness.

No man could endure in this world remaining so pliable and pure. Ramsay was only repaying the debt, by muddying the boy up a bit, that he might have a better chance of survival. So Ramsay told himself, when he took Pod by the hand and lead him back to his tent. The boy didn’t even put up a token resistance, allowing himself to be stripped and pressed into the furs and tasted all over. Even afterward, Ramsay couldn’t put a name to the taste, that unique quality that made Pod so sweet.

A thorough investigation was called for, and until they were called back to war, neither of them had anything better to do. It was a deeper distraction than Ramsay could have hoped for, knowing no wench could hold a candle to his Myranda. But Pod was something altogether different, and Ramsay always enjoyed the flavour of something new.


	75. Ellaria II

THE ZEALOUS TRAVELLER

She did not understand why he felt the need to go. Robert Baratheon had done nothing for Elia, and they needed to conserve their energy and resources for the true war to come. Doran was sceptical of the undead creatures they had claimed to see but Maester Caleotte had taken a full accounting from each separate man or woman that had been on the expedition, and he at least gave some credence to their accounts. Though the learned man felt that perhaps their companions had been infected with some disease, which drove them to rage and homicidal madness. 

Despite his lack of enthusiasm for sending troops to defeat monsters of nightmare and legend, Doran allowed himself to be persuaded to send a force, to join Mace Tyrell's army tarrying the Westerlands from the South. Driving the lions back to their pridelands, with nowhere to turn. The coastline was blocked off by the Ironborn and Redwyne fleets. Stannis Baratheon led the forces streaming in from the Stormlands, barricading any route East to Essos. Ensuring that those who profited from Elia's death had no means of escape. They would feel as trapped and helpless as she must have felt, in her final days.

Doran was easily swayed by Oberyn's fervour to avenge their sister's death. No counsel to stay their hand and keep their people from war would move Oberyn. In the end, it was evident that he would ride to slay Lannisters, with or without the support of Dornish forces, and so their people would ride to war.

Doran was even less convinced by Quentyn's choice of future bride, a Northern flower pretty in full bloom, but one that would wither and age like brittle leaves in the hot sun. Still, the girl was sweet and demure, fostering ties between the two furthest Kingdoms. 

Such a meek girl was no threat to Arianne, though Ellaria's friends in low places said the girl's paranoia grew worse by the day. Jonelle Cerwyn was devoted to Quentyn, and unlikely to press him to be ambitious with plots and schemes.

Jonelle was at least willing to challenge herself, tasting Dornish delicacies of all kinds. Though their spiciest pepper dishes disagreed with her, the girl had taken to their curries, tagines and sweet rice cakes.

Ellaria's younger daughters liked her well, and Nymeria was always happy to share a card game with new competitors. Little Jonelle kept mostly to her own ladies however. There was the bookish Eddara Tallhart, who has somehow charmed Doran into allowing her access to his library. Accompanied by Talia Forrester, who had a voice like a skylark and a talent for the harp, and her baseborn sister Elsera Snow, who was as secretive as she was wild. These pale Northern flowers had interrupted the normal routine of the Water Gardens, dressing as though they were training to be Septas, despite the heat.

Doran seemed pleased to be surrounded by reticent, chaste women and their stoic, gruff Northmen guards. All men were like that to some extent, thought Ellaria, wanting their womenfolk to bow down and acknowledge their glory.

She did not want her own girls to lose their fire, emulating these foreign girls and their subservient ways. Soon their older sisters would ride to join the war already waging in what semed Iike the rest of the continent, and they would have no other role models. Damn Oberyn and his insistence on taking any chance to meet Gregor Clegane in the field. They could just as easily have let their enemies tear each other to pieces, and pick over whatever carcass was left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> Time skip! The actual war is mostly unwritten and will be slotted in later.


	76. Margaery

THE GRACEFUL TRAVELLER

On meeting Robb Stark for the first time, Margaery regretted her hasty grab for the throne. After Robert’s marriage to Cersei had been annulled by the High Septon it seemed like her only chance to be Queen. At the time, no one had taken Robb Stark’s claim to the title of King in the North seriously. He had seemed like a boy playing at war, beside the bloodthirsty, battle-tested Robert. Robert spoke of his namesake as a petulant child, rebellious but green.

But Robb had surprised them all by winning every battle he fought. He had carved out not only his own Kingdom, but cut off a sizable chunk of Robert’s, and when you counted the fact that Dorne really ruled themselves and the Westerlands were in open rebellion against the crown at that point, King Robb ended up with the larger, more stable land of the two men. Proving himself to be a skilled battle commander and shrewd negotiator. Plus he was younger, more handsome, and raised by arguably the most honourable lord in the Seven Kingdoms.

After meeting Robb, seeing those bright blue eyes framed by lashings of red curls for herself, Margaery was rather cross with her grandmother, for persuading her to marry Robert before the war was won. If Margaery was still free, she might have had a young warrior for a husband. No doubt he was a virgin, someone she could teach to pleasure her in all the ways she preferred. Instead, she was lumbered with an obese, drunken oaf closer to her father’s age than her own.

There was no use crying over it now; at least in King’s Landing, Margaery would be afforded the kind of lifestyle she deserved. From what she understood, the North was a plain, primitive sort of place. Drab, and not very lively. The people were too preoccupied with grain and harvest to care much for conversation, tournaments or dancing, all things Margaery adored. She would probably not enjoy living there very much at all. Eating simple food, unable to wear her fine, revealing dresses due to the famous cold. Dreary days passing with no laughter or beauty. No, the opulence of the Red Keep was much more her style.

Still, she could not help but fantasize over what might have been. Alone in the dark, where there were no piercing eyes surrounded by deep crow’s feet to judge her. Running her hands through Robb's rich red curls in her mind, she taught him how to give the lord’s kiss. Clutching those curls tightly as he drowned between her thighs. It was a wonderful dream to return to, night after night.

Margaery didn’t have any opportunity to corner the man alone, until Robb’s new bride was only a few days ride out from the Capital. Robert, in a bid to be magnanimous, had offered the Sept of Baelor for their wedding. It had the advantages of being double edged sword. On the dull edge; the gift of a royal wedding, legitimised by the use of the grandest sept in the known world. And the sharp edge; a wedding before the Seven, for the King of the First Men (a title Robert had agreed to relinquish), with all the pomp and opulence Northmen famously rejected. No doubt the Northmen had been gnashing at the bit in eagerness to go home, and now they were stuck waiting for a grand wedding to be performed.

Robb had affably agreed, but Margaery saw the flash of annoyance in his blazing blue eyes. She was not at all surprised to learn that a second wedding was planned in Winterfell’s godswood when they returned home. When she came upon him in the godswood of the Red Keep, she quickly shooed Brienne away a good distance. Then, once she had caught his eye, she couldn’t help but ask why he didn’t simply have his second marriage on the same day, in that very place.

Amused, Robb raised one eyebrow at her impertinence.

“It wouldn’t have any meaning, without a heart tree.”

Of course. Margaery considered the large yew tree at the centre of the Red Keep’s godwood to be a heart tree, but a Stark would accept no less than a carved weirwood.

“Then I hope the second ceremony is beautiful and solemn, as is fitting. Much more preferable to the extravagant nonsense you will have to endure here.”

Robb laughed at that, stepping a few paces closer to her. “Thank you, my lady.”

At this range, Margaery noticed the missive cradled in his hand. She nodded to it with a demure smile.

“A message from your betrothed?”

Robb blinked, as though he had quite forgotten the scroll in his hand. Margaery was used to having that effect on men. She blinked demurely emphasising her large, innocent eyes.

“Ah, no,” Robb said hastily, before his expression became more guarded. “A letter regarding my son. He is in good health and has learnt to roll onto his tummy. And he has begun the normal babbling and reaching out for things- sorry, I’m boring you.”

“Not at all!” Margaery chirped, “I can tell you’re very proud. It’s lovely that you care so deeply. I know little and less about babes, myself. But I suppose you would be familiar, being the eldest of so many brothers and sisters.”

She thought she masked her shock well. Not a virgin after all then, but a new father. If she didn’t know better of a Stark, she would suspect the child in question a bastard. She had not been told that Robb Stark had ever been married, but then Northmen kept to themselves. And Grandmother didn't tell her everything, much to Margaery’s frequent chagrin. But some expressions couldn't be faked, and it was often better that she didn't know the full picture.

Margaery knew Mrycella Waters had been sent North with the intention of marrying Robb, so he must be a young widow. How terribly sad, she suddenly thought. He had kind eyes and a gracious manner, was fearless in battle and a good negotiator. He did not deserve heartbreak. But most likely, his first wife had died in childbirth. She resolved to make no reference to the woman, lest it rob the sweet smile from his face.

“You must be excited, to be a new father?” She asked, “It’s horrible, how the war has separated so many men from their little ones.”

“My son is one of the lucky ones. His father will be returning to him,” Robb said, a shadow of regret passing across his features. “But yes, I will be glad to see him again. I was there for his birth, by sheer luck. The timing of the campaign meant I was camped in the Neck when Meera went into labour.”

Margaery blinked, puzzled. If the boy was newly born, he most certainly had not been conceived long before the war, when Robb was supposedly betrothed to Mrycella. Robb seemed to sense her confusion, offering her a commiserating look.

“Everyone keeps congratulating me on my first child.” he revealed, “It’s getting irksome, correcting them all.”

Margaery gave up in her attempts to understand. Her assumptions thus far had been fruitless, a miss of the target every time. Robb Stark was turning out to be far more complex than she had expected. Not a green boy, not at all.

“How many children do you have, your grace?” she asked faintly.

The boy was her age, or thereabouts, and blushed at the sight of her bosom in her low-cut dress. Yet he had more than one babe already?

Ned Stark was famously honourable, but even he had fathered a bastard, she suddenly remembered. And Brandon Stark was said to be a wild one, hence his ridiculous demand for Rhaegar Targaryen to ‘come out and die’. It seemed Robb had followed in the footsteps of his forebears.

He answered her question with a far-away look in his eyes. “Just two; and my boys have the same mother.”

A wistful smile passed over his face then, and all at once, Margaery finally understood. Robb Stark was in love with an unsuitable girl. And like Prince Duncan the Small, he would not give her up, despite the throne that had been thrust upon him.

Or perhaps he had named himself King in a bid to no longer remain beholden to any other. For who could order a King to marry against his wishes? And yet they were to remain tragically parted, Robb and his Meera, regardless of his power. Because war was costly in money and supplies, as well as men, and Robb Stark needed the funds that control of goldmines and stores would give him, through his chosen Lannister bride.

Robb glanced down at the letter in his hands, no doubt penned by his mistress, a proud smile on his face.

“I have been a father since I was fourteen,” he revealed, “Yet it never ceases to be a delight. I’m sure you will experience the joys soon, your grace.”

Margaery did her best to return his smile, hoping it seemed genuine. “If the gods are willing.”

“Yes indeed,” Robb agreed, glancing up at the unacceptable heart tree. “Though to my people, these lands are entirely godless, with no weirwoods to contain them. I am sure it cannot be entirely true. There would not be so many kind people here, such as you, were it not for their influence.”

“I am sure you are right, your grace,” Margaery blushed, hoping he truly meant the compliment.

“I know it,” Robb’s gaze returned to his letter. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to reply to Meera. This was her response when I told her of the wedding. I think she’s worried I might forget about our boys. As if I ever could.”

The young King shook his head fondly, and took his leave.

Margaery remained in the godswood for quite a while, and considered what it would be like to love someone enough that even a small scroll could garner in such joy. She hoped to have children of her own to cherish someday soon. But Margaery knew it was not only news of his sons that made Robb's eyes sparkle.

She wondered if poor Rosamund knew her future husband's heart belonged to another. Margaery shuddered then, very glad that at least Lyanna Stark was long dead, though Robert loved her still. A very good thing she had not waited to marry Robb, yes. She was not at all suited to the North.


	77. Jaime

THE DESPONDENT TRAVELLER

When they told him he’d be taking the Black, he’d thought it a jape, or else a very thinly veiled lie. Oh yes, they’d let him live out his days on the Wall, the place many thought he should have been sent at the close of the Rebellion anyway. But only if he managed to get there, without a catspaw slitting his throat first. Robert Baratheon wasn’t one to allow himself to grow horns, without lopping off heads in recompense. Cersei’s beautiful, slowly rotting face spiked atop the Red Keep was proof of that.

It wasn’t a surprise, that they’d had him dragged from his filthy cell and flung onto the steps of the Sept of Baelor, in front of the hungry amassed crowd of smallfolk. All pushing and shoving to get a better view of his disgrace. People were all the same; pretending to admire and respect you, but revelling in your misery the moment you were brought low. Hypocrites, all of them.

Jaime didn’t care that he would be sent to the Seven Hells imminently. He’d meet Cersei there.

Of course, it was rather a shock, when Robb Stark passed judgement upon him, not Robert, and Ilyn Payne was nowhere to be seen.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, you have been found guilty of theft from the crown. Stealing King Robert’s true heirs from forming in the womb, by laying most unnaturally with the former Queen Cersei, your own sister by blood.”

Jaime said nothing. He wouldn’t give this boy the satisfaction of denouncing Robert, protesting the validity of his love, or begging for his life.

“For the crime of adultery with the former Queen, you will be sent to the Wall, to take the Black and join the Night’s Watch, your only hope of regaining any honour in this life.” The boy droned on, still keeping up the fiction that this day would end any other way than with Jaime’s head parted from its usual position.

“For the crime of theft,” continued the so-called King in the North, “the punishment is clear.”

Guardsmen grabbed him by his arms then, shoving him to his knees, his muscles too weak from atrophy to do more than ache in protest. His shackled hands were yanked before him, the left dragged onto the block. Jaime began to struggle then, but the irons kept his hands where the guards wanted them. Jaime stared in mute horror as Robb Stark, First of His Name, unsheathed his longsword.

“I, Robb of House Stark, King in the North, do sentence you to the loss of a hand.”

The Boy King leaned close then, glaring directly into his eyes.

“You deserve worse than this,” he sneered, spitting in Jaime’s face. “You have Sansa to thank for your head.”

Jaime was not surprised that the cutting was slow; torturous and brutal. He had put his sword through the boy’s father, after all. His blood ran down the block, viscous and hot as Jaime screamed and screamed. Until the pain, and sight of his hand hanging on by a thread of skin, was too much, and he knew no more.

*

He was afforded a few weeks for his stump to heal, during which time he was tended by the new Grand Maester. Pycelle had lost his head not long after Cersei, during Robert’s mass culling of Lannister supporters at court. The new man was far younger, bruske but not unkind. No infection set in the horrid new wound, at least in part to his actions. Jaime now being confined to servants quarters, rather than his former spot in the Black Cells, was probably the more pertinent move.

To his surprise, they fed him decently, though nothing extravagant. Once his stump had begun to heal properly, he was dragged out once a day to spar with all comers. Thank the gods they hadn’t taken his sword hand, though if they truly planned on trotting him up to the Wall, he supposed that made sense. Jaime’s balance was all wrong at first. Though it helped that he’d never been too reliant on duelling with both hands on his sword.

Robb Stark came to observe his training most days. After the first couple of sessions, he interrupted Jaime’s current sparring partner, to shackle a shield around his forearm. Tightening the straps almost painfully, so that it wouldn’t slide off. Jaime glared at the boy that had mutilated him, but since they only gave him wooden swords to practice with, there wasn’t much else he could do. To his great surprise, the shield helped. He stopped trying to use a hand that wasn’t there, and instead utilised blocking maneuvers he had learnt as a child, but had rarely used in actual combat.

Not that he was going to thank the little whelp for the idea, but it was certainly a useful tip to remember. It came with the added benefit of being able to temporarily forget about his lack of one hand, since the shield was easily manipulated as though it were still there.

*

Jaime had wanted to hate Robb Stark, but found it next to impossible, when he started bringing Tommen and Myrcella to his daily practices in the yard. No one had told Jaime what happened to them, and Cersei had been so sure that if they lost, their lives would be forfeit. She had infected him with her paranoia. He hadn’t wanted to ask a Stark man or the new maester about their fates, lest they sneer and smile describing their horrific deaths. Perhaps it was no more than he deserved, having failed to protect Elia and her children. Too busy saving the lives of thousands by killing Aerys and his pyromancer. One foul deed, leading to so much unforseen retribution...

Jaime had been hesitant to approach the children after his daily outing was done. But King Robb encouraged them to go to him instead. He found himself embracing them for the first time as their father. He was frightened then, for their fates, if they were to be kept alive. Tommen was too little, too soft to be sent to the Wall with him. And what of Myrcella? Someone so sweet, wasting away as a Septa? Or perhaps to be married to some ancient, lowborn bastard of the meanest House in Westeros?

He had to ask, as he was escorted back to his cage; King Robb taking his children back to their own. But his guards either didn’t know, or didn’t care to tell him.

Jaime let worry eat at him day and night, until he finally caved and asked his gaoler himself. King Robb levelled him with a flat, unimpressed look, but at least he consented to answer.

“Myrcella is to marry Renly, and accompany him back to Storm’s End.”

“Marry Renly? She’s ten years old!” Jaime repeated, aghast, but mostly shocked that Robert would consent to let his own brother marry a bastard girl born of incest, denounced by the High Septon and the vast majority of Westeros.

Robb seemed to understand all the questions he did not ask. He sighed heavily, but did not tell Jaime he had no right to question anything, as most men would have.

“Renly was worried for her fate. I think he just wants a wife to quieten the rumours about him, and is taking the opportunity to do a good deed in the same instance.” Robb mused, and his opinions of the current state of court would certainly be more well-informed than Jaime, who hadn’t seen anything but his own room and the sparring yard for two moons.

“And Tommen?” Jaime pressed, not wanting to think too hard on Myrcella’s future loveless marriage. At least she had liked Renly well enough as an uncle. He was kinder than his brother, and wouldn’t hurt her. Probably.

“Tommen is for the Citadel.”

Jaime blinked at that, recalling his own horrible days learning to read and write to an adequate standard, at his father’s knee. Four hours a day in Father’s stifling solar at Casterly Rock, forced to write the same letters over and over until his hand cramped. He still got apprehensive whenever he had need to visit Father’s rooms as an adult. A son from his loins, training to be a maester? It seemed improbable at best.

“Well,” Jaime murmured, “It takes a lot of study and skill to forge a chain. And Tommen always enjoyed to read.”

“An honourable profession.” Robb agreed, “And a safe one.”

Jaime met his eyes, and saw what Robb would not say out loud; that the children would live, if they all went to their assigned places and did their duty. Night’s Watchmen and Maesters typically not fathering any babes, and Myrcella tied back into House Baratheon, where Robert could control her. A very neat conclusion indeed, for the fat Stag.

All of his children, away from the corruption of the Iron Throne. Not such a terrible outcome after all, though Cersei would have disagreed. But Cersei wasn’t here, and they would all have to learn to live without her influence, though Jaime's heart seized, whenever he contemplated his future, without her.

*

Jaime was led North with the weather-beaten, tired Northmen, eager to get home to their dour wives and squalling babes. With a jolt, Jaime realised he too would be reunited with his babe; the only one that he would likely see again.

He hadn’t thought too much on how Joffrey was faring at the Wall- if he even still lived. Joffrey was a brat who did not endear himself to anyone, and no longer enjoyed the protection of royal blood. Joffrey was very likely to offend the wrong person one too many times. The boy had inherited everything negative about him and Cersei; he was cruel, headstrong and rash. Joffrey rarely practiced anything of worth, and he certainly hadn’t inherited Jaime’s skill with a sword. But then, Jaime had trained under Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, all the hours the day would allow. He didn’t just stumble into his skill, it was honed over years of sweat and toil.

He had certainly taught the Northmen a thing or two, with just his swordhand. Eventually, even King Robb had fought him, and though he was better than Jaime had anticipated, he was no Loras Tyrell or Sandor Clegane. After their first bout had ended in a draw, the young King had sparred with him every day, and more often than not, so did the newly crowned Prince of Dragonstone. They were already showing signs of marked improvement, but Jaime was only disappointed that he had not met them in open battle. If he had, perhaps the outcome of the war would have been very different. But alas, it was Father who had clashed with Robb, and Robert who had cut down Jaime’s forces, after they had already been decimated by Robb’s night time attack.

There was no use wishing for alternate outcomes; Jaime was too old for that. He let their steady progress away from King's Landing wash over him, without active attention. He was unsurprised when they were ambushed by ‘bandits’ just barely outside of the Crownlands, on the road North. Jaime made no move to protect himself; he had little use for life, without Cersei to share it with. But the 'bandits' were kept far from him, and the only one left living after the skirmish was Ser Bronn. Robert’s favourite sellsword, and a newly minted member of the Kingsguard. Taking Jaime’s own place, after earning his spot fighting with the Baratheon forces streaming out from the Vale, right at the start of the conflict.

Robb couldn’t kill Bronn after he surrendered, without better justification. Though Robert was a fool to send such a well-known man to assassinate Jaime on the road North, it was hardly a surprise to anyone. Bronn was sent back to King’s Landing minus his dead companions, no doubt to get an earful of abuse from Robert, which would have to suffice as punishment.

The Riverlands were a mess, pockmarked and pitted by destroyed farmland and razed farmhouses. The Westerlands were worse, by all accounts. The Ironborn had reaved, ravished and pillaged, until barely a speck of wealth could be found anywhere outside of the deepest vaults. Or so the talk went. There was a new song the marching soldiers sang, about the rape of the West by the sea. It made Jaime’s gut churn as he gritted his teeth, every time he heard it.

They made camp outside the twins, hosted for a week to stock up on supplies and strength before they trudged ever Northwards. Jaime was grateful for the delay. His last chance to see green and fertile lands during the dying summer, before he was shackled to permanent Winter in the far North. Why Tyrion ever wanted to see the bloody Wall, Jaime will never understand. There was nothing glorious about a gigantic shield of ice protecting the realm from base savages.

Now Jaime was to call it home, and share it with his least favourite child.

*

Jaime was afforded one last boon before he was to take his vows, and live out his days at the end of the world. Tyrion was at Winterfell, and Robb allowed him, and the other men bound for the Watch, to camp there for several days. Enough time to say an adequate goodbye.

Tyrion was so pleased to see him alive and mostly whole, that his joy was infectious. Jaime gathered his small brother into his arms, uncaring who could see. He never thought to see Tyrion again, after war broke out, and his brother was trapped in the North. It seemed inevitable that after Jaime killed Ned Stark, he had signed his own brother’s death warrant.

He apologised for it, loudly and unreservedly, but Tyrion would not have it.

“You were fighting in a war.” He chided, “It could have meant the difference between your own life and death; of course I did not expect you to just lay down your sword.”

“Still, I would never have forgiven myself, had you been executed-”

“Northmen are far too honourable for that,” Tyrion waved away his concerns firmly. “Lady Sansa- I suppose she is to be a Queen someday, if Robb Stark is truly forfeiting his claim to the Iron Islands- she would not have it.”

Jaime frowned heavily at that. Robb said he owed his life to Sansa also, so he questioned if Tyrion knew anything about that. Tyrion shrugged, but did not seem flustered by the news.

“She has had control of Winterfell since Robb rode to war against you. And the position was not a symbolic one, mark my words; she ran this place with an Iron fist. That woman is all Greyjoy now, believe me. She even dried out Sandor Clegane.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow in disbelief at that, to which Tyrion merely chuckled.

“It’s true!” his diminutive brother insisted, “She offered him the choice of service at the Wall, or service here at Winterfell. He chose to stay here, and she’s had all the Lannister men building storehouses and fortifications for the town and the like. Plus two hours in the Sept at the start of every morn, listening to Septa Mordane read from the Seven Pointed Star. Not a drop of wine for any of them, only a small cup of ale at dinner. They hated her at first, but she’s fair and firm. Like an uncomfortably attractive Septa. I’m not in the least surprised to hear Robb defers to her judgement.”

Jaime considered it, but it still seemed inadequate, as explanations went. “She’s still only a girl. Robb Stark has a mother, the Blackfish for an uncle, and Jon Arryn as another by law. Why defer to his younger sister?”

Tyrion stepped closer into him then, placing a hand on his shoulder, to lean up to his ear.

“They say she has ‘greensight’; that she communes with the old gods, and can see the future.”

At first, Jaime laughed, but it petered off when Tyrion did not join in.

“I’d not mock her if I were you,” Tyrion said with a shudder, “She knew things about my life at Casterly; about my relationship with Father, and Cersei, that she could not have learnt from rumour. She’s not Varys or Baelish, with a thousand spies in every whorehouse. She’s a little girl who spends her time praying before the heart tree and ordering Northmen about, when she’s not fawning over her admittedly adorable baby son. There is something very different about her.”

A shiver ran down Jaime’s spine; Tyrion was not one to believe in tales of grumpkins and snarks. But what concern of Jaime’s was it, really? He only owed her his life.

*

Joffrey was almost unrecognisable, clad in the dull black garb of the Night’s Watch. His golden curls had been shorn to a practical, close-cropped style, and he stood with the balance of a soldier, not in his usual lazy slouch. There were plenty of jeers when Jaime alighted his horse, finally arriving at his ultimate destination, but Jaime only had eyes for his son.

The boy stared at him with mistrust or fear, once Jaime finally had a chance to speak to him. After Lord Commander Mormont had given him a look over, and a grunting explanation of his assigned duties (recruit training in the yard, to no one’s surprise).

But when Joff opened his usually petulant mouth to ask if his mother was really dead, Jaime recognised the grief in his eyes, as much as his shallow son was capable of feeling. Cersei was always his staunchest defender, coddling him and fussing over him since he was born. It was not incomprehensible that Joffrey would struggle to accept her gone from the world entire.

“She is,” Jaime confirmed sadly, “But you still have me, for whatever that’s worth.”

“You.” Joffrey repeated slowly. “Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer… my father. If the rumours are true.”

He said it dismissively, some of that old arrogance shining through, but Jaime could see Joffrey was worried. That it was true? Or that it wasn’t, and he was just the nameless bastard of some unknown man? Which would be worse in his eyes, Jaime wondered.

What was the point of denying it now? They’d already lost. There was no point in lying about it anymore. He hadn’t to his younger children. Though Tommen hadn’t really understood, Myrcella had been calling him ‘father’ before he left. He found he rather liked the sound of it.

If they were to spend the next however many years serving at the arse end of Westeros together, they might as well begin with honest footing.

“They are,” Jaime confirmed. He carefully approached his son, formerly the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, now just another Black Knight.

The boy was always volatile, prone to tantrums. A year and a half at the Wall can’t have changed him entirely, but they appear to have had some impact. Because instead of lashing out, Joffrey allowed Jaime to gather him close, and even sagged a little into his arms before he skittered away.

“We’ll miss dinner.” he announced, to cover his sudden movement. “The cooks here are fuckers, won’t let you eat if you’re late.”

He sounded as though he was speaking from experience. Jaime watched in wonderment as his son stomped off, leading the way to the hall. Cersei would never have tolerated language like that, and he was intrigued to see how else Joff had changed, free from her influence.

Jaime followed him to a table crammed with men, once they had their bowls of what might be stew. He was about to suggest another, emptier table, but Joffrey surprised him by opening his mouth first.

“Shove over, Grenn. You’re not so big as to need a space fit for three men, aurochs.”

“Streak of piss like you only needs to squeeze in at the end!” laughed a tall, shaggy-haired man, apparently named Grenn.

Jaime fully expected Joffrey to throw a fit at being termed so unflatteringly, but his boy only laughed.

“Give over, Grenn! I want to sit beside my father,” his voice wobbled a little at the end of that statement, nervously.

But his companions; Grenn, and two men who were introduced as Pyp and Edd, did’t bat an eyelid at his announcement, scooting along to make room. The boys chattered away to Joff about the other new recruits, eyeing Jaime with interest and some suspicion.

“You’ll whip them into shape better than Ser Alliser.” Joff pronounced proudly, when Jaime admitted he would be training them in swordplay.

“The man’s nothing but a bully,” Edd hissed, “None of us would have learnt a thing, if it weren’t for Lord Eddard, sending castle men to train us.”

“He did?” Jaime asked, surprised. He'd heard nothing about an increased need for well-trained men at the Wall.

“Aye,” said Pyp sourly, “Lord Eddard was a great man.”

Jaime thought about Ned Stark claiming a bastard, and all the dishonour that came with it, to protect his sister’s only child from Robert’s wrath. About raising a son strong enough to wrestle a Kingdom from Robert without bloodshed, yet still humble enough to listen to a sister that bid him spare Jaime’s life. A boy kind enough to allow Jaime time to spend with his children and brother, before he would be separated from them indefinitely.

“Yes,” Jaime agreed solemnly, “I suppose he was. And an honourable one, to the very end.”


	78. Ramsay VIII

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay slid his fingers down sweat drenched hips, scrabbling for purchase as he thrust upward, as hard as the position would allow.

“Fuck,” he panted, “How do you always feel so good?”

Pod's slick channel tightened around him in response, but he said not a word, too lost in sensation as he rolled his hips and took every hard inch Ramsay had to give. Pod was kneeling above his lord knight, hands clenching down on Ramsay’s shoulders for balance as he bounced and weaved. Panting attractively as his head lolled back, wobbling drunkenly and exposing his lovely long throat. Ramsay wanted to reach up and bite it. But he was loathe to change the angle that had Pod so enraptured.

Pod began making a light groan that gathered in momentum, deepening with each of Ramsay’s thrusts, until he shuddered violently and went still. Only then did Ramsay flip the boy on his back, taking care to have tight hold of his thighs, to keep himself in place. He thrust in with abandon, wildly propelling himself in deeper, until he finished with a growl and bit down on the flesh closest to his mouth. It happened to be one of Pod’s nicely rounded shoulders.

They lay in a pile of undulating flesh as they struggled to regain their breathing. Until Pod’s hands began to skitter about him, clearly wanting Ramsay to get off. Ramsay complied, but not before pressing a hard kiss against the younger man’s slack mouth. He flopped down into what was generally designated his half of the bed. Letting the chilled Northern air cool the fire under his skin. Beside him, Pod drifted into a light doze. Ramsay spread furs across them both, and not without need. Less than an hour later, the door to his chamber thumped open, and a familiar tiny figure skittered toward them.

The small intruder launched himself at the bed, managing to land on Pod’s fur-clad legs. Ramsay’s bedmate woke with a wheeze, and Merik giggled in delight.

“Horsey!” His son shrieked, to which Ramsay raised only a brow in question.

Merik knew how to string more than one word in a row, but often chose not to do so. Roose thought the boy feeble-minded, but Ramsay suspected he was just lazy. Ramsay directed his questioning look to Pod, who was guiding the child to nestle into the furs between them. Therefore not resting all his weight on Pod's valuable legs. Task complete, Pod sent Ramsay a winsome smile.

“Dom promised to take him riding today,” he imparted, and all became clear.

“Ah,” Ramsay found himself grinning with real pleasure at his son then. “How should you like riding with Uncle Domeric? He taught me to ride also, did you know?”

Merik gave a little wave of his arms to indicate he understood, before hiding his big smile behind his hands, as though it were a secret. Pod began to tickle his tummy in response, and the boy squealed with laughter.

Ramsay poured a goblet of water for Pod, who accepted it gratefully. Ramsay had already quenched his thirst in the interim between activity in his chamber. Merik slithered up the furs to be closer to him, eventually leaning back against his father’s well-defined chest. Ramsay absently ran a hand through his son’s thick hair. He wondered how many domestic scenes like this one were left for them to play out.

Tyrion Lannister was heading back to what had once been the Westerlands soon, and was taking most of the Southrons back with him. A few had perished, and some had been sent to the Wall with Joffrey Waters. If Ramsay never had to make another journey further than the Barrowlands, he would count his life a lucky one. Ramsay had quite his fill of marching through muddied and war-desecrated lands. Stinking heaps of bodies and burning farmhouses littering the land, as they marched in driving rain and sometimes snow. The North was his home, under stark grey skies, breathing clean air. He never wanted to find himself in the slagheap that was the South again, if he could avoid it.

The same was not true for Pod. He was a Southron man, for all that he had been converted away from the Faith and been taught to fight like a Northman. He had kin in the South. A home that belonged to his House and probably had no one to claim it, judging by how many Lannister bannermen had died or been deposed in the war. No doubt he would soon be packing his meagre belongings in a bundle and returning to the Imp’s service as a squire.

Ramsay had offered to knight the boy after Podrick saved his life in battle. Pod had skewered a Black Ironborn fuck through the back and out through the belly, as he stood over Ramsay with an axe in his hand. Gold krackens had come to their aid then, swarming their fellow Islanders in a ferocious clash of kinsmen that was savagely beautiful. Pod had lugged an injured Ramsay back to a tent with maesters and Silent Sisters tending the wounded. Practically dragging him with one of Ramsay’s heavy arms slugged over his shoulders. But the boy had refused his offer of knighthood; saying that he had not yet earned it.

Ramsay suspected that the denial stemmed more from a lack of will to leave his side. As knight and squire they were afforded intimacies. Two knights could not spend so much time alone in one another’s company, without raising suspicion. Ramsay cared not a whit for what anyone thought of him. Everyone was too frightened of him to ridicule him. But Pod was a sensitive soul, and easily bullied. If he should've been caught unaware, taunting soldiers could have beaten him bloody before Ramsay sent his boys to intervene. He knew he wouldn’t have to ask Damon for assistance; the brutish man was fond of Pod. If Ramsay didn’t know how Damon was face-deep in camp followers every night, he might have grown extremely greedy and protective. He didn’t like to share his toys.

He decided to renew his offer of knighthood before Podrick left. Better to send him back to the Lannister Imp as his own man, not beholden on serving anyone for favourable attention. As suspected, Podrick did not deny him this time. Though he asked that they delay the ceremony for a time. There were matters Pod wished to discuss with King Robb before to undertook his vigil.

Ramsay did not ask what these matters were; mayhaps the boy was securing his passage North, should he ever wish to visit again. Judging by the fondness Pod had for his son, he did not think it outside the realm of possibility.

*

King Robb and the Lannister Imp were in attendance when Maester Wolkan anointed Pod with the Seven holy oils. Since they didn’t have a Septon at the Dreadfort to do it. Snow covered the ground of the godswood, and they could see the clouds of their own breath. Ramsay had scoffed at Southron tradition and made sure Pod was covered with furs, so he didn’t freeze to death during his all-night vigil. He’d also made the servants take him pea soup in the middle of the night, with the warning that he would whip them if Pod didn’t eat it. Despite it being against the rules, Pod had finished the whole bowl. Much as Ramsay suspected he would, if others faced punishment for his deeds.

Now a few of them had gathered for the last part of the ritual, though most had opted to remain out of the cold. Merik had wanted to attend, but Ramsay had asked his step-mother to take the boy in where it was warm. Knowing that the woman wouldn’t heed the boy’s protests. There would be time to celebrate together at a feast held in Pod’s honour.

“I’m pleased for the lad,” Lannister said cutting through Ramsay’s thoughts, “He was always the good sort; too soft to get on in this world, I worried. It’s a miracle he survived the fighting.”

“No,” King Robb disagreed, “I saw him grow fierce under Ser Ramsay’s tutelage.”

“Indeed,” Lannister said, giving Ramsay a nasty, dubious look.

Ramsay wished he could put out his eyes, but since King Robb had released them, the time for abusing hostages had come to an end. Father had never been very inclined to set Ramsay loose on them either way. He said his younger son was too heavy handed. Dom was the better choice to ‘interrogate’ prisoners and the like. Regardless of the name of the man holding the knife, a flayed man screeched the same. Dom often let Ramsay take over anyway, when he grew bored of their pathetic noises.

But there was no need for all that now. Pod joined them with a silly, wide grin on his face. Ramsay felt his fingers twitch with want to reach out. He longed to smother that foolish grin with his own lips. That Pod could be so thrilled to be leaving him made his neck itch. He was unaccustomed to this neediness, to wanting things from people but being resigned not to gain them. Whenever Ramsay wanted something, he simply took it. Would that he could do the same with Pod. But a person is not a castle, or food or land. You could take a person, but you couldn’t keep them, not unless they allowed it. Ramsay grit his teeth and vowed not to be cruel on a happy day for his lover.

He attuned himself to the conversation, sometime after the other men had congratulated his former squire.

“Are you ready to be on the road?” Lannister said, as Ramsay stared with hollow eyes running across Pod’s features. He needed to commit this face to memory, in case he never saw it again.

Pod directed that familiar gentle, soft look at him, eyes like a placid doe. They weren’t the same mud brown as Ramsay's son, rather a lighter shade mingled with a little green, but it was enough to pass them as kin. In another life, they might have been a family. Ramsay swallowed deeply, his mouth suddenly filled with saliva.

“I had rather hoped to be given a reason to stay.” Podrick whispered, seemingly only for Ramsay.

Ramsay’s thin thread of control snapped like cut twine. He hurled himself forward, dragging Pod into a cruel and demanding kiss, with biting teeth and grasping hands. He pulled back after a moment, feeling like a wilding attempting to steal a bride. Pod didn’t let him get far, sliding one hand into his hair. Returning his kiss with a far sweeter, if no less possessive, one of his own.

Lannister let out an awkward cough, and they separated. They found the short man regarding them in mortification, whilst Robb Stark was attempting to hide his laughter behind his fist.

“Fuck off, Imp.” Ramsay snarled, “You’re not having him.”

“I don’t want him!” Lannister squeaked, “Leastways not in that manner. But you’ll always have a room at Casterly Rock, should you want it, Pod.”

“Thank you, m’lord.” Said Pod, sliding his arm under Ramsay’s own, and about his waist. Ramsay rested a propietary hand on Pod’s hip in response. They fit together like two pieces of wood carved from the same branch.

“Ah, I’ll see you at the feast?” the Imp finished with an embarrassed nod, taking his leave.

King Robb stayed a moment longer, approaching them. His smile was wide and not surprised. But then, he had fought on campaign beside them for years. He was bound to be aware of any rumours regarding their closeness. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, and Ramsay suddenly wondered what exactly Pod had spoken to the King of.

“Congratulations, Ser Redbolt,” their King said with a knowing grin, but he was looking toward Podrick.

Ramsay turned to him in confusion. Redbolt was the name he had chosen for his own knightly House. Back when Dom knighted him, so that he and Myranda could give their son a real name.

Robb sent Ramsay a nod, before turning to depart also. Ramsay turned to Podrick for an explanation.

The newly made knight shrugged. “No point to me being the only Northman with a Southron name. The Paynes never really cared much for me, not even my own mother.”

Pod’s eyes took on a mischievous twinkle then. “I doubt your father would ever give us leave to marry. Knighthood is one of the few ways a man might change his name… and we’re a family, aren’t we?”

His tone took on a hesitant note then, as though he was still unsure, after all this time. Ramsay’s answering kiss was savage, but tempered by love.

“Forget the feast.” He hissed, “I’m going to fuck you over the desk in my father’s solar.”

Pod laughed uproariously at that, but didn’t protest as Ramsay took hold of his hand to drag him inside, to do just that.


	79. Theon IV

THE FORMER TRAVELLER

Theon cradles the precious bundle in his arms, riveted by the placid expression on the face of his daughter. She is so impossibly tiny, with a downy lick of pale gold hair, and a row of long, delicate eyelashes fanned out against her rosy cheeks. He’d caught a glimpse of her eyes earlier, and they were the same bold bright blue as his wife. But her slightly off-centre nose and pointed ears were all him.

She was beautiful, this perfect little creature he had helped create, right down to her small pink feet, which were stubbornly poking out of her swaddling. Even her tiny feet are lovely, he thinks, somewhat incredulous. He hadn’t considered himself a man capable of such great depths of feeling. As a youth he’d covered every negative feeling with a fake smile, until he’d accepted those shallow displays of false happiness were all he was capable of. Sansa had dragged him away from all that, filling his days with genuine joy. And now he could feel the rich glow of love, swelling from somewhere deep within.

However did I manage to make the gods smile upon me so? He thought, drinking in the sight of his wife, still flush and exhausted from the birth. Her fiery hair was a tangled mess, her skin sweat-slick and a bright shade of red. Despite all that, she was utterly radiant. He wanted to lean across the distance between them, from where he was seated on the bed covers, and kiss her deeply. But a reluctance to disturb the peace stilled him.

Instead Theon focused again on the little one in his arms. There was truly no better gift to come home to. Although he loved to be at sea, to inhale the salt spray and see the ocean spread out before him, nothing could compare to returning home to his family. Theon only wished he could have spent more time here, at home, while she was heavy and swollen. But at least he had been present for this, had missed none of these first, precious moments.

“Hello sweetling,” he cooed, leaning down to nuzzle against the babe’s soft forehead, revelling in her scent.

Sansa was smiling at him soft and loving, when he finally pulled back again.

“Are you quite sure, about the name, my love?” Theon asked tentatively. He’d agreed to let Sansa name the children, and he didn’t like to reverse such decisions. Still…

Sansa raised a thin eyebrow at him, but said not a word. Theon flushed, yet gave it another attempt, just in case she was capable of being swayed.

“Your choices are lovely, of course, but perhaps Jonelle would be a nice for this little one? Or Joanna?”

It was a valiant attempt, but Theon could see from the mischievous twinkle in her eyes that Sansa would not be moved. He sighed, defeated, and decided to simply enjoy the weight of his newborn daughter in his arms.

“We’ll defer to your mother’s judgement, Thea.” He confided softly, “It’s usually for the best. She’s a very wise woman, you know.”

Thea smacked her wet lips together, flexing her tiny fingers to grip the soft swaddling blankets, deeply entrenched in sleep. Theon looked away from his namesake long enough to indicate to a maid that their brothers be allowed in. A moment later they were joined by Robb and Jon, scurrying into the bedchamber, eager but quiet. Robb was still in his outdoor cloak, having evidently needed some time outside to walk off the tension of waiting.

Their eyes skittered from the small bundle in Theon’s arms, to Sansa, who was cradling her own. She jerked her head, to call the men to her. To Robb, she passed the smaller of the two babes in her own arms, their other daughter. To Jon, she passed their new son.

Robb and Jon shared twin looks of glee as they held and cuddled their respective niece and nephew.

“Well done, Sansa.” Robb grinned. “Three at once! You’ll be the envy of every wedded woman in Westeros.”

“They’re beautiful, Sansa.” Agreed Jon, more serene as always. “What are their names?”

Sansa smile was twisted up to one side, in an effort to hold back her laughter. Theon rolled his eyes, but could not hold back his own grin. She’d obviously had this planned for months, since the master revealed she was carrying more than one babe.

“Robb has Robbyn.” Sansa said, to which Robb blinked in surprise, before breaking into a large grin, his attention fixed on the girl in his arms.

“This is Thea,” Theon interjected, before Sansa had the chance. Robb laughed at that, looking between the two identical girls. So far they could not tell them apart. Sansa had already decided to tie a different coloured ribbon around one of their ankles, so they would not confused as to who each girl was. Until then, they had been wrapped in different coloured blankets.

“And Jon.” finished Sansa, looking to the third man in the room. Jon waited expectantly, a slightly confused look settling across his face when Sansa’s soft voice said no more.

After allowing the other men a moment to stew in their confusion, Theon elaborated; “The babe’s name is Jon.”

Jon went rigid at that, incredulous. He took in the features of the babe in his arms, who Theon knew to be the largest of the three, with a thick covering of dark brown hair, and eyes that were a darker shade of blue than his sisters. Jon looked between Sansa and Theon, his face slack with shock. Something about the set of his lips made it obvious he wanted to ask if they were sure.

Sansa interrupted, before he had the chance. “It seemed only right. The three of you have been so close these long years. I only hope these littles ones will love another as deeply and loyally as their namesakes.”

“I’m sure they shall,” Robb said robustly, rocking the girl in his arms, “I look forward to the time my niece speaks of all the adventures they have together.”

Jon said nothing, content to stare at the sleeping child named for him. Theon shared a look with his wife, leaning forward to deposit their daughter into Sansa’s waiting arms. Then he stood up, clapping Jon gently on the shoulder. He had no wish to rock Jon too vigorously, and risk waking his son.

He and Jon have not always had the best relationship. As boys, they shared a love for Robb which kept them close, which was solidified when Theon was betrothed to Sansa. Around then, Theon started following Sansa’s cues for treating Jon. He had recognised that she would not tolerate constant friction between her husband-to-be and the brother she no longer called ‘half’ or ‘baseborn’. Since then, they had fought beside one another in battle, and still Jon doubted his place in Theon’s family?

Jon’s arms were full with the babe. Therefore he could not shy away, when Theon wrapped an arm about his shoulders and gathered them both close. Peering down at his sleeping boy.

“There is no better man I could hope for my son to take after.” Theon said quietly, knocking his head gently against Jon’s curls. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jon’s lip wobble, and then the younger man relaxed into his hold, resting his head against Theon’s own.

This was their family, the family they had both longed to be a true part of for many years. Nothing could cleave them apart now. They were all too strongly bound. If anything should happen to him and Sansa, Theon knew their brothers would watch over their children as though they were their own. These cherished babes would never have to feel the sting of isolation, as he and Jon once had.

Theon caught Sansa’s eye, and felt his heart swell with love for the girl who had made him a Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In total, Sansa and Theon had five children, seventeen grandchildren, and more than fifty great-grandchildren. In a labour of love I made a Greyjoy-only family tree, viewable [here](http://www.familyecho.com/?p=START&c=118fawroauj&f=919949142609735432)
> 
> Preview:
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2vry8hd)


	80. Robert II

THE IMPATIENT TRAVELLER

Robert Baratheon sighed heavily, massaging his aching forehead with bulbous fingertips. He felt the kind of fatigue usually associated with days spent awake, marching to war, when there was no time to be lost. But instead of enjoying battle and reaping the rich rewards of war, he had been confined to the Red Keep for days. Jon Arryn harassing him from dawn till dusk to find a solution to his heir problem. Oh, his own line was secure, of that he’d made sure.

Margaery had done her duty admirably, and with far less insufferable pride than that abominable whore, Cersei. Robert had seen to it that there was no chance of being fooled into accepting another rotten egg into his nest. He’d kept her confined to her rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast, until a pregnancy was apparent. Even after, she was only allowed between the courtyard and her chambers under the constant supervision and protection of her sworn shield, Lady Brienne.

The girl had never quite forgiven him for that, but then Robert hadn’t really expected her to. A gilded cage is still a prison, and she was under no illusions, that one. For all her pretty smiles and empty words made her seem harmless. Men had thought it a source of great amusement, that Robert had cleared the Maegor’s holdfast of all men. But Jon had convinced him of the need for absolute certainty this time.

Instead of male guards, a contingent of armed women were placed there to protect Margaery. Mostly Northern women, since precious few in the other Kingdoms were castle-trained fighters. But there’d been some from Dorne also, and Brienne of course. The women trained together, trading styles and weaponry. Before long, it became somewhat of a daily spectacle for the members of the court to watch.

Robert had planned to have the women replaced with Unsullied soldiers, though his Small Council had grumbled at the idea of purchasing slave-fighters. But the women became so proficient, so commonplace in court, that it was rather a shock when the small band of Unsullied men turned up. Some of the women had been pleased to be released from their service, eager to go home. A few had petitioned to stay; some Northern, including the Mormont girl and her Ironborn husband, a little group of Dornish women, and of course Brienne. Three of them had brokered marriages for themselves, with men who weren’t afraid of a tough woman.

A blue-eyed, black-haired son had been born to Robert, and for a while all had been smooth sailing. The realm had congratulated him profusely. Even if Jon would not let him spend the same grand amount on the tourney and celebrations of the new Prince’s birth, as Cersei had insisted on when Joffrey was born. It was for the best, he insisted, that they didn’t fall into the same kind of debt to the Tyrells, as they had with the Lannisters. Thankfully, occupying Casterly Rock during the war had allowed him to gather up the remaining gold to pay off the Iron Bank. The crown’s debt to the Lannisters was written off, as a term in the decree allowing Tyrion Lannister to retain his ancestral lands and the title of Lord of Casterly Rock, though the Westerlands had been carved up between the three Kings after the war.

When Robert’s new son was born, Renly had come to court to congratulate him personally, despite the little Prince meaning he lost his title as heir to the throne. Renly had been in the Stormlands since almost the end of the war, re-introducing his new wife to the lords there.

Robert hadn’t known quite what to think, when Renly had petitioned him to be allowed to marry Mrycella. Tyrion Lannister had begged for her to be placed into his care. Jon had wanted the girl to go to the Silent Sisters or become a Septa, but Robert himself had suggested her married into some low masterly House. He’d always been fond of the younger children. Which is why he had allowed Jon to persuade him to send Tommen to Oldtown, when he’d been bound for the Watch with his horrid, bratty brother. Women didn’t have as many choices outside of marriage. The Sisters had seemed like the only real one, until Renly had pleaded with Robert.

It was no secret his younger brother was a sword-swallower. So he didn’t want the young girl for lecherous purposes, of that Robert could be sure. It seemed to be genuine affection, to spare his former niece a life of drudgery. Renly had been sad and hurt to learn the little ones weren’t his blood kin, almost as much as Robert. It hurt to look at the girl, who had become quiet and sullen after learning the truth. She never mistakenly called him father afterward, as Tommen frequently did until he was sent to the Reach.

Robert and Jon had both agreed it would be a match of convenience. Allowing two people without many options, the chance for legitimacy. The benefits included Mrycella removed from court, so that the smallfolk and highborns alike had a chance to forget about her as their princess, and for Renly, no more pestering from Stormlords who wanted their daughter as the wife of their Lord Paramount.

It wasn’t the only marriage Robert had been forced to broker after the war. Stannis had done him the great disservice of getting himself killed. Leaving only a disfigured girl, too young to be the Lady of Dragonstone. Jon had warned him that if he didn’t take advantage of the turmoil after war, she would be difficult to find a husband for. The meek girl was too good for court, having none of her father’s brittleness. Until Robert had an heir, Renly filled that role. As his only other legitimate relative, Shireen was the next in line for the throne.

After the last battle, that was a fact that could be exploited. Her Florent relatives had wanted her married back into their House, vying with men from the Reach and Stormlands. It was Shireen herself that had come to him with the answer, quiet as a field mouse. She wanted to marry into the North, despite its new status as a separate kingdom.

“They are a plainer, hardier people. They value strength more than beauty. I was not born for silk-dresses and the South, your grace.” The little girl had told him plainly.

For once, Robert listened to the pleas of a girl. She had inherited Stannis’ matter of fact manner. No doubt she felt wildly out of place at court in her drab, dark dresses, among the women with elaborate hairstyles and clothing, with their perfumes and painted faces. Southern knights wanted a woman of beauty, not a girl with a half her face hidden by hair. Shireen had survived Dragonstone; she would flourish in the North.

Loathe to get into another battle of wills with King Robb, Robert sent for Randyll Tarly. A most fearsome commander, and more pertinently, a man who had a son married into the North. Brokering a deal with the Manderlys through him, had been much less of a headache than dealing with the Young Wolf. Shireen had been fostered in New Castle ever since, in anticipation of her marriage to Wyrik Tarly. Or Manderly- there had been some confusion about that. In any case, Randyll Tarly had secured himself a future great-grandson with royal blood, and Robert had seen his niece betrothed to the wealthiest house in the North, which would have pleased Stannis. Jon was happy, having negotiated a more acceptable dowry than if a Reach lord had gotten his thorns into Shireen.

If only things had gone as smoothly with Renly. If only his younger brother had shared Stannis' obsession with duty! Being a Lord Paramount from childhood had made him flippant and whimsical. Years had passed, and still there were titters at court that Mrycella was still a maid. Loras Tyrell had taken up residence in Storm’s End, despite the public strife between him and Renly, after he had refused to attend Renly’s wedding. Now, Robert was plagued with distant cousins, on both his father and mother’s side. All vying for his favour in the hopes of their House being named the heirs to Storm’s End, when Renly inevitably failed to produce one. Robert knew it was only fair, after all the title of Lord Paramount must pass to someone. But he was loath to let his ancestral home fall out of the hands of his family.

He might have legitimised Edric Storm. But the fool had fallen in love with the wrong highborn girl, and had run away to join the Second Sons in heartsickness when he couldn’t have her. Robert couldn’t really fault the boy for that. Many a time when listening to Cersei be insufferable or the Small Council droning on, he had fantasised about running away to Essos and joining a sellsword company too. At least the boy had proven his hot-headed, furious Baratheon blood. Mayhaps Robert would legitimise him anyway, just to see the look on the Stormlord’s faces.

But it would bring him no closer to clearing his court of his pestilent relatives, constantly buzzing about Robert whenever he had a free moment. Like an infestation of lice that could not be cleared. The Estermonts made their claim through his mother, whilst the slightly more distant little Lord Bryce Caron was advised to press his claim through his grandmother’s line. Olenna Caron had been the sister of Robert’s grandfather Ormund Baratheon, and therefore the reasoning was sound. The young Lord of Nightsong was indeed closest to the Baratheon line after Renly and Shireen. But that would leave Nightsong with no one save Bryce’s bastard brother Rolland Storm to claim it. Since all his other legitimate siblings had died from an outbreak of the chill, along with both his parents. Legitimising Rolland would push out all the other lords with a claim to the keep.

In frustration, Robert had sent for his only grown son to bare his name. Gendry was a good lad. He fought alongside the Starks during the war, with a hammer of his own. Something Robert enjoyed to boast about. His boy, a mirror image on the battlefield! It was the stuff of songs; a son taking up the mantel of his father. Gendry looked the part too, with great strapping muscles from years hammering at the forge. He’d wed into an ancient House, giving himself greater legitimacy, though Robert now cursed his own lack of foresight.

Robert should have known that Renly couldn’t bring himself to produce heirs – or at least Jon should have. If Renly was capable of lying with a woman, he would have married young to stymie the rumours about himself and the Rose of Highgarden. If Robert had considered this during the war, he would never have allowed Gendry to be married off to the Stark girl. It would be a pig’s ear to convince his ornery Stormlords to accept the boy now, but it would have been a damn sight easier if he’d been free to marry Shireen. A marriage between the cousins would have made Gendry’s claim incontestable. Any naysayers that wouldn’t have a bastard for a lord, not even a king’s bastard, would have accepted Shireen as their lady.

But alas, Robert had been too focused on his own lack of heirs and hunting down Cersei to kill her because of it, to worry about anyone else’s. And now he found himself in the arduous position of persuading his lords to love his boy.

His expectant grandchild made things easier. Robert had been very moved to learn of it, from the boy’s letter. He was glad of Stannis’ foresight, to have Ned Stark teach the boy his letters, as it was wonderful to read about the boy’s joyful anticipation in his own scratchy hand. Having the child born at court would emphasise Robert’s regard for Gendry. And perhaps his bloody relatives would start pestering the boy instead, for an alliance through a marriage to the new babe when it came of age.

As Robert penned his reply missive, ordering his son to attend upon him and bring his newly pregnant wife along for an extended visit, he prayed the tactic would work. Otherwise he was going to have to force Renly to copulate with his once-daughter, under pain of death, just to get some peace and quiet.


	81. Ramsay IX

THE SLY TRAVELLER

When Ramsay Redbolt entered his chambers, he was already shirtless, having worked up a hefty sweat in the dungeons. His well-defined chest was striped with small flecks of another man’s blood. The snivelling prisoner had unfortunately had little to offer in way of useful information, and was from a worthless House to boot. No one would miss him. So Ramsay had made good use of his soon-to-be carcass. Inept men like that were best utilised purely for entertainment, and Ramsay had enjoyed their games together very much. Disappointingly, the skin on the man’s back had been scarred and lumpy. Not at all worth flaying. But Ramsay had just the solution, and Damon had been courteous enough to offer up his favourite whip. Now his own blood was up, and Ramsay craved a different kind of relief. He left the man to the mercy of his boys, and tomorrow, he would feed the scraps of what remained to his bitches. But Ramsay himself had been blessed by the old gods with a superior means of slaking his insatiable lust, if only temporarily.

Ramsay briskly made his way up from the bowels of the Dreadfort, keen to make good time. Wiping off his heated skin with his discarded tunic, he stomped up to his assigned rooms. There he found Podrick, waiting up for him, though the hour was late. He was only wearing a long woolen undershirt, bent over the hearth, poking at the dying fire to revive it. Ramsay drank in a long, appreciative look at his lover’s sweetly rounded behind, before he announced his presence by hefting the door shut behind him with a solid thump. Pod heedfully replaced the fire poker and threw him a coy, bashful look. He rose slowly, and instead of approaching Ramsay directly, headed toward the large oak table, where cold meats, cheese and bread had been laid out at the far end. But Ramsay was starved for a different sort of flesh and sustenance.

“Wine, m’lord?” Pod asked, his fingertips brushing the decanter.

In lieu of an answer, Ramsay crossed the room in three large strides, and dragged Pod into a deep, fervent kiss. Podrick's soft mouth was welcoming and tender, his plump lower lip ripe for biting. Ramsay didn’t deny himself the pleasure, as was his wont. Pod let out an anguished whimper in response, wonderfully desperate and needy. Quickly their breaths became loud, hard and harsh through their noses as the kiss deepened. Pod’s hands began fluttering about Ramsay’s bare, sweat-slick shoulders, scrabbling for purchase. He seemed torn between raking his nails down Ramsay’s taut chest or smoothing them through his damp hair. His mind had clearly not been made up when he lost the chance to try either. All the air was knocked from Pod's lungs when Ramsay slammed him against the edge of the table, his strong hands reflexively squeezing at him. Finally making his choice, Pod wound a hand into Ramsay’s hair and gave it a sharp, vicious tug in revenge, before squirming out of his grasp just long enough to hop up onto the tabletop.

Then Ramsay was on him again, trapping the younger man within his arms. He set to work on worrying the skin of Pod’s lovely neck until it flared in various shades of red, that would soon darken to attractive purple blooms. Their rough breathing echoed in the sparsely lit room, bouncing off the bare stone until it began to drown out the hum of pounding blood in Ramsay's ears. Rasmay sighed in relief, reassured that once again all it took was a taste of Pod to cool his thirst to rend and flay back down its usual simmer.

Podrick seductively slid his bare calf up and down the outside of Ramsay's leg. The coarse material of Ramsay’s breeches was irritating to the smooth, delicate skin of his leg, which was only lightly dusted with hair. Pod hooked the appendage around his middle, using both legs to drag Ramsay in closer, heels digging into his lower back as he pressed the two of them together, until there was no spare room betwixt them. Ramsay let it happen, too busy painting Pod’s neck with his teeth to care how he was directed and handled.

Pod gripped onto his shoulders tightly, nails starting to break through the skin with a sweet tinge of pain. Ramsay’s manic grin was bloody, as he revelled in the familiar thrill, all the while stroking one calloused hand down the knobbles of Pod’s spine. Massaging gently, carefully containing the strength in his fingers. He hadn't realized quite how much he appreciated returning to his heated chambers to find Pod already wanton and willing, until this moment.

Pod shivered when Ramsay hitched his long nightshirt up, exposing his thick thighs to the cold night air. Ramsay was forced to brace himself against the sturdy oak table, his knees too weak to support his bulk when Pod kissed him passionately, one gentle hand cupping his jaw. It felt as if Pod was consuming all his bloodlust, until all that was left was pure, aching need. Ramsay tore himself away with a curse, fumbling one-handedly at the ties of his breeches, until Pod’s softer fingers covered his own, taking over the task. He let out a guttural groan of relief when his cock sprang free, followed by a satisfied sigh as Pod began to work the shaft with a tight, sure grip. Rolling the aches from his shoulders, Ramsay tilted his head back and let the sensations wash over him for a long, blissful moment.

With a strong shudder, he grabbed hold of Pod’s wrist, forcefully pulling his hand away. Ramsay pushed the other man down to lay flat against the table’s worn surface. Together, their hands scrabbled at Pod’s nightshirt which bunched up awkwardly beneath his armpits, until he arched his back and yanked it off, flinging the fabric to the floor carelessly. Then Pod was completely naked in the rapidly cooling chamber. Spreading himself out like a delicious treat, for Ramsay alone to devour. He himself was still wearing his breeches and leather boots. Without knowledge of it, Ramsay licked his lips at the long expanse of warm, bare skin that was suddenly on display. Pod’s answering grin somehow both teasing and shy.

Ramsay encouraged Pod’s legs to open even wider, shouldering his way between them when Pod obediently drew his knees up. One of his legs settled on the table, the other gliding effortlessly over Ramsay’s shoulder to rest there. Delighted by Pod’s brazen behaviour, Ramsay dipped his fingers between his inviting cheeks, two fingers sliding in easily. Pod whimpered at the firm touch, legs involuntarily twitching as though putting up a token protest and attempting to close. Ramsay grinned ravenously when he found Pod was already wet with slick lavender oil, immediately picturing Pod writhing on his own fingers.

“What have you been up to, hmm?” he teased redundantly, “Did you enjoy yourself tonight already, without me?”

Pod possessed the grace to blush bashfully, avoiding Ramsay’s eye to mumble incomprehensibly into his own chin. For that, Ramsay pressed a fond kiss to the ankle that was balancing on his shoulder. On any normal night, Ramsay would mayhaps playfully punish Pod for such a transgression, slapping his beautifully rounded behind until it was burning red. Tonight he had no patience for such matters, having already worked himself into a state of frenzy, down in the dungeons with a darker game. If he toyed with Pod now, Ramsay might endanger him by being too forceful, and releasing the tether on his inner brute. Fucking would have to be enough to satiate his appetite tonight; Pod was too precious to risk unleashing his true strength on.

So instead of chastisement, Ramsay bent Pod’s legs up at the knees, and he leaned down to capture his lips once more. Pod let out a huff of annoyance when he quickly moved away again, chasing Ramsay’s lips and pouting when he only chuckled, pulling himself up and out of reach. Pod stroked one hand up and down his lightly stubbled throat, smiling tenderly when Ramsay captured his thumb between his lips, and gave it a small nibble. Tilting his hips, Pod shifted his weight against the table, lining them up so that if Ramsay wanted to, he could plunge right in. His fingertips lightly skimmed the skin of Pod’s rounded hips, light as a quill tip, as he considered it.

He knew he would have had Pod wriggling with laughter, were he truly armed with a feather. Pod had markedly sensitive skin, receptive to the lightest touch. Without such tools at hand to take advantage of, Ramsay’s rough-hewn hands firmly took hold of Pod's pudgy love handles instead. It was one of Ramsay’s favourite places on Pod’s body to fondle and caress. Kneading the soft tissue there, he thought about flipping Pod onto his belly to drive into him, like a stallion would take a mare. But in that position it would be too easy to picture another in Pod’s place, someone worthy only of abuse. Tonight Ramsay wanted to indulge himself, but not by taking the chance that he would forget just whose body he was plundering.

So he ducked down to trace a path down Pod’s hairless chest with his tongue, pausing in his descent only to suck and scrape at a nipple. Pod let out a hum of satisfaction, arching into his touch, one hand scratching gratefully at Ramsay’s scalp. His other arm was stretched up, braced against the hardwood table, his fingers curved over the top edge. Pod’s hips jolted up against Ramsay’s firm hold with every kiss and lick bestowed on his body. Ramsay brushed his smug smile against Podrick's soft belly, pawing the plump, favoured flesh in his hands. He nipped at Pod’s navel, before finally arriving at the thatch of curls in the juncture where his thighs met.

Ramsay threw Pod a smouldering look, his eyes twinkling, darkly mischievous, before dropping his head. Taking hold of Pod’s dick in one hand, Ramsay pressed a kiss over slit with just the barest flicker of tongue, before swallowing him whole. Letting out a yowl like a dying animal, Pod threw his spare hand across his face, using his shoulders to brace against the table as he yanked on Ramsay’s hair. Pod tasted salty sweet and smelled floral, like the rose soap the servants had no doubt used in his bath. Ramsay flexed and flicked his tongue the way he knew Pod liked it best, eyes tightly shut as he revelled in the unbridled noises Pod couldn’t contain.

“Ram- Stop. Stop!” Pod moaned, hands digging into his shoulders. “I’m too close.”

Reluctantly, Ramsay resurfaced, wiping at his spit-slick mouth, his lips wet and shiny in the candlelight.

“Want you to fuck me,” Pod insisted, grinding shamelessly against him, and Ramsay was only too eager to comply.

It was the work of a few scant moments to grease himself up with his natural slick, trusting Pod to have sufficiently worked himself open earlier, with the lavender oil. Ramsay pressed his head into Pod's stomach and slammed inside in one sharp glide. He groaned, muffling the sound against Pod's quivering belly, before uncurling to almost his full height. With standing leverage, it was easy to start a tantalising pace of punishingly slow thrusts to bury himself to the root. He started by rolling his hips, unhurried and rhythmic, letting Pod feel every inch of him.

In this position, Podrick liked it best hard and deep, and he kept Ramsay reined in with his legs even as the pace increased. Until Ramsay felt like he'd been waiting for hours for the glory of release. Pod was scorchingly hot and tight around him. Ramsay could only imagine what they looked like, undulating sinuously together.

He wished he could peel back their skin, layer after thin layer, so that their muscles and bones could glide together as well. Hot and silky smooth with viscous, wine dark blood. He pictured a blanket of their skin mingling and weaving together such as threads on a loom, knitting them into one combined entity, never to be torn asunder. He barely noticed the loud groan he let out at the thought, focusing instead on pounding in with reckless abandon, his thrusts becoming shallow and rough jerks.

The room filled with the sound of their swift, panting breaths, the rattling creaks of the poor abused table, and the slap of their wet skin gliding together. There was nothing but the insatiable drive of his hips and the sting of Pod's nails raking across his skin.

At length, Pod began to tremble and curse to the gods, clamping down on him tightly, as if he wanted to fuse them together as much as Ramsay did. Pod cried out loudly when he spread his seed across their heaving stomachs, actual tears sliding down his flushed face. His limbs sprawled, suddenly boneless as he lolled back, shivering through the tremors. Ramsay fucked him through it all, mercilessly. Pod reached up a single hand to gently caress Ramsay’s jaw with one index finger, a fond look in his eye and a secretive smile on his lips. Ramsay found completion under that look, toes curling in his boots, cutting off his own roar of satisfaction with a bite as he filled Podrick with his seed. Knees weak and trembling, he slumped forward onto Pod’s prone body, the two of them heaving in great gulps of air as they tried to calm their pounding hearts.

Eventually, they slithered down from the table, swaying drunkenly across the room to collapse in a sweaty heap upon Ramsay’s cosy fur-drenched bed. Exchanging small, sleepy kisses, they soaked up each other’s warmth until the heavy, crashing waves of sleep dragged them both down into its dark, dreamless depths.


	82. Gendry III

THE INTREPID TRAVELLER

"Won't you take her with you?" Walda repeats, her desperation hidden behind a sweet tone, visible only in her aching eyes. "Say that you will, she'd have such a lovely time in the Capital. With the Red Keep and the harbour and all. Wouldn't you like to see it, Jeyne?"

"Yes, Lady Mother," Jeyne Rivers whispers, curtseying again to avoid Gendry's eyes, her cheeks flush with embarrassment, to be trotted out in public like this.

This is what Robb Stark must feel like all the time, Gendry thinks, somewhat hysterically. Trapped between what law and custom dictates, and what he feels to be right and honourable. Or between simpering Walda in her humongous pile of pink ruffles, and Arya fuming at his back, her pregnancy just beginning to show through her riding leathers.

"I would have written to Winterfell, had I known who you were! Father wouldn't have objected me marrying Robert Baratheon's son, oh no." Walda continues blithely, "But I thought you were bound for the Night's Watch, see, so I never thought to see you again."

He can't deny the story is plausible. The small girl has the Baratheon look, no doubt, straight black hair tied back into a single scraggly braid, big blue eyes. The features have been made infamous since Cersei's disgrace. But Gendry isn't the only man in the North with dark hair, and blue eyes are common. She's the right age, probably. But at that stage, a moon or two, or even a full year can be forgotten, and how would he notice? He only has Walda's word for her birth date. But does it really matter?

Gendry considers it as he drops to a crouch, to better see her, this trembling little girl. She's clearly terrified of him. Of what he might do to her, as he gently lifts her chin with his thumb. Gendry is a Baratheon now, after all, and "fury" is in their words.

But Gendry doesn't feel anger when he looks at Jeyne Rivers, in her second-hand dress, with fraying seams and a torn hem. Only pity, that she will be stuck here at the Twins. No lord that comes a-calling would take her fat mother to wife with a bastard in tow, and what kind of life will she continue to suffer here? Yet another mouth in a crumbling holdfast with too many to feed. And a bastard one at that. Last to be fed, last to wed.

Gendry well understands what it was like to be nothing and no-one to anyone. He was a motherless urchin in Flea Bottom, until Jon Arryn paid Tobho Mott to take him in as an apprentice, for the luck of who his father was.

It doesn't matter if she's not his. Not really. Doesn't he owe it to Jon Arryn, to raise her up? A way of paying back some of the debt he owed the man, as Gendry never could during Jon's lifetime.

"Aye," says Gendry, tucking a loose strand of hair behind the girl's ear. "I'll take her."


	83. Ramsay X

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay wasn’t particularly interested in feasts. Like any man, he enjoyed sampling the better cuts of meat available, and the superior quality of the wine. But listening to his father’s snivelling bannermen pontificate about battles of old was too dull for words. Father expected him to sit and listen with rapt attention. And even dance if the occasion called for it.

Buxom wenches, the daughters of the lowest lords to sup at their table, would take the opportunity to press their flesh against him and bat their eyes. They still held out hope that Ramsay would marry again. As if his Myranda could be so easily replaced by any of the feeble women thrust at him. As though his bed was not already filled by someone more valuable than those girls would ever be. Besides, none of the girls really wanted him for his own charms. Only the chance their family could share in the wealth and position his father's House enjoyed. But no matter which tart squirmed against him wantonly, Ramsay would inevitably end the night disgracing his father by putting hands on Pod in public. Nibbling seductively on Pod’s delectable ears or cupping him through his breeches. Until Pod managed to squirm away and tug him into the shadowy recesses outside the hall.

No doubt this evening would end the same way, the two of them fumbling back to their chambers to fuck away the scent and touch of strangers on Ramsay’s skin. Some nights they wouldn’t make it that far, tugging each other off in dark alcoves. Or if Ramsay was lucky, Pod would drop to his knees and put his luscious mouth to excellent use.

They had a few more hours of dreary war stories to endure tonight, before Ramsay could revel in such things. He was currently fending off a slow, bloodless death by boredom, listening to Lord Whitehill bounce between tales of past glories, and the talents of his only daughter, Gwyn. They were still only on the main course. Yet Ramsay was already praying for someone to choke on a fish bone and die. Preferably Lord Ludd Whitehill. It might provide a modicum of entertainment.

Ramsay couldn’t even indulge in any illicit petting. Pod was seated across from him, rather than nestled into his side. As per Father’s insistence, when there were guests at the Dreadfort. According to Father, Ramsay tended to ignore others if Pod was within grabbing reach. Not that the opinions of the Whitehills mattered much anyway. They were a vassal House to the Boltons, and would show due respect, regardless of whether they were indulged in conversation or not.

Despite the distance between them, Ramsay’s attention was devoted to his lover. Ramsay watched from beneath hooded, suspicious eyes as Podrick picked at his food. He left a noticeable amount in his bowl. Merik, greedy like all growing boys, was eager to finish it off, when Pod nudged it in his direction. Ramsay scowled at the sight. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught Pod leaving food or taking smaller portions. He’d resolved to talk to him about it, but each time Ramsay had tried, some pressing matter had gotten in the way. Taking a gamble on the many feet crammed beneath the high table, Ramsay nudged the foot a little to the left ahead of him. He was gratified when Pod caught his eyes. He rubbed Pod’s ankle with more purpose, when he sent Ramsay a small, secretive smile.

Unfortunately, it was swiftly wiped away when Lord Whitehill chose to interrupt the moment with his usual heavy-handed praise. “As I said, Ser Ramsay, my Gwyn is a sensible girl, no nonsense about her, and good with children. Very patient with her cousins-”

Pod immediately dropped Ramsay’s gaze, something vulnerable about the melancholy dip of his mouth. It was difficult for Ramsay to stomach endless tales of pretty wenches in the hope he would cloak and bed one. How humiliating it must be for Pod to sit quietly by. Blatantly ignored by the grasping lords who were determined to pretend he didn’t exist. It was shockingly rude conduct, truly.

“My lord,” Ramsay interrupted through clenched teeth, suddenly furious by the charade, “Let us be frank. We both know your daughter won’t ever be warming my bed.”

Ludd Whitehill immediately fell silent. The parts of his face not obscured by bushy white whiskers and a matching robust beard burned a bright red. Neither man noticed the servants bustling around them, clearing the table for the next course. They were both frozen by honest words spoken too contemptuously to be a jest.

“You know who enjoys that honour. Ignoring him won't make Pod cease to exist,” Ramsay leaned forward, the wide wooden table pressing into his stomach. He took Pod’s hand and dipped his head, to place a reverent kiss upon it.

He could practically sense the steam pouring out of his father’s ears. Ramsay knew there would be repercussions to a public display of his ardour, before everyone was so deep into their cups they could dismiss it. But if it stayed Whitehill’s tongue, Ramsay didn’t much care. Ramsay didn’t relinquish his grip on Pod, as he turned his icy gaze on the wheezing old lord.

“I have no intention of changing bedmates, until death comes for me, and drags me down to your Seven Hells.” Ramsay’s cruelly cold look pinned the uncomfortable Lord Whitehill, “Understand?”

A ugly silence was growing all about them. Even Merik had ceased his obnoxiously loud chewing, and was regarding his father with confusion.

Ludd squirmed with embarrassment to have his intentions publicly spurned, opening his mouth to speak but finding his throat too dry. After a pitiful cough, wetting his lips, the man finally muttered, “Just so, good Ser.”

Delighted with the misery he had caused, Ramsay bestowed his smoothest, most polished smirk on the table's occupants. “Excellent! Now, time for more wine, I think.”

Lord Whitehill chugged from his refilled goblet with gusto. Clearly glad to be released from the seething hatred in Ramsay’s ice-blue eyes, plainly projected when Ramsay had momentarily let his mask slip.

The dessert course was a selection of fruits, plain and candied, syrupy honey cakes, and trays of sweetmeats. Ramsay frowned when he noticed Pod take a handful of plain grapes on the vine, and nothing else. When the sweetmeats were handed down the table, Ramsay took two. Firmly placing one on Podrick’s plate. At the questioning look Pod sent him, Ramsay only raised a challenging eyebrow. Still, Ramsay noticed that by the time the musicians began plucking their instruments, Pod had only pecked away at half of what was one of his preferred treats. It was the third time within a sennight Ramsay had caught Podrick declining dessert. If something was troubling him enough to turn him off his food, Ramsay was determined to discover the culprit.

Ramsay had hoped they could slink away early tonight. He had planned to use the excuse of putting Merik to bed as a chance for them to leave. But Father prevented that, calling for a maid to stand by, ready to put all the children to bed. Ramsay’s dismissal of taking a second wife would surely prevent any grasping girls rubbing their breast all over him tonight. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one pestered into taking a turn about the floor. Before Ramsay take advantage of the chance to finally sit beside Pod, Wylla had swept Podrick into a lively dance. They moved surprisingly gracefully together, despite her bulging pregnant belly. Afterward, a blushing bannerman’s daughter found her way into Pod’s arms. Ramsay was resigned to lounging in his chair, swilling rich wine and glaring at anyone that got too close. His bossy niece lead his son imperiously around the floor, the two children wobbling precariously whenever the steps became too vigorous.

When he saw Pod decline another dance partner in favour of catching his breath, Ramsay slinked down from the table. He slid his arms about Pod’s waist from behind, uncaring of who could see. Ramsay’s hands naturally found their way to Pod’s stomach. He intended on settling his hands the soft leather of his jerkin in a close embrace. But before he could get a good hold, Pod wove their fingers together. He opened Ramsay’s wandering hands outward, bringing them down to the safer area of his hips.

Somehow, Ramsay didn't think it was only the lack of decorum that was bothering Pod. Lately, Pod had been acting oddly whenever Ramsay attempted to fondle his soft stomach or squeeze his thighs. It wasn't a lack of carnal interest either. He’d been happy to press Ramsay onto his back and bounce on his dick. No, something was eating at Pod. Ramsay tried not to dwell on the sting that Pod hadn't shared his woes with him. But he couldn't deny that it hurt to realise Pod was keeping secrets.

Smothering the urge to demand answers right there, Ramsay gradually began to sway to the rhythm of the music. Gently moving Pod in tandem, until he relaxed enough to let Ramsay turn him around to hold properly. Snug in one another’s arms, they drifted into something of a dance, slower than their fellows, to a melody only they shared.

*

It took some effort for Ramsay to finally pry Pod away from the feast. He was always more concerned with the impression they made to others. It was at his insistence that they stay. There were precious few people confident enough to demand things from Ramsay; most were far too afraid of him. He appreciated that Pod was brave enough not to adhere to his every whim or indulge him in everything he asked for. It was refreshing. Pod wanted to remain in the hall a respectable amount of time, and so they did. Ramsay was happy to indulge Pod in such matters, knowing he would be rewarded for it later.

When they were finally approaching the chambers they shared, Ramsay skittered ahead. Turning to face Pod, walking backward to hold his gaze.

“Shall I ring for a servant? Have them fetch something more to your liking from the kitchens?” He asked.

Pod shook his head. “I ate enough, I’m not hungry.”

Ramsay wrinkled his nose in disbelief. “You left most of it. You can’t have liked it much. What was it, too much gristle?”

Pod shrugged, and though Ramsay pursed his lips, he allowed the subject to drop until they reached their door.

As they were tugging off a jerkin and unbuckling a belt respectively, Ramsay blurted; “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you refusing food. Nibbling like a little bird, at whatever manages to make its way onto your plate.”

Pod shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Ramsay’s gaze. Already exasperated, Ramsay tossed aside his jerkin, not caring where it landed in a crumpled heap. He grasped hold of Pod’s chin firmly, forcing their gazes to meet.

“What are you keeping from me, hmm?” He swooped down to give Pod’s temping lower lip a quick bite. “Don’t make me force it out of you, dearheart.”

Pod flushed. Ramsay’s preferred method of extracting information from him was to tie him to the bedposts and keep him on the edge of release, until he cried and begged.

“It’s nothing of import. I’m only trying to get down to a more reasonable shape.” Pod mumbled, cheeks still blazing.

Ramsay frowned, uncomprehending. He stepped back to run his eyes over Pod’s familiar form, taking hold of his soft shoulders. Nothing seemed unreasonable; from Pod’s sweetly rounded face and lightly muscled arms, down past his large hands, chubby middle, thick thighs, all the way to his average sized feet. Ramsay shot Pod a puzzled look, laced with a threat. Pressing for more information would only frustrate him, and Pod knew it. Ramsay detested to be kept waiting.

Reluctantly, Pod elaborated: “I’ve grown soft, in the time since the war. I know how you despise Lord Manderly… I didn’t want you to start thinking of me in that manner.”

Ramsay started, blinking at his lover incredulously. “You think you’re too fat to please me?”

Pod dropped his head, ashamed. Then Ramsay was on him like a scavenging fox, ducking down to nuzzle their noses together until Pod tilted his head back to allow him room. As soon as the angle was right, Ramsay captured Pod's lips in a deep, consuming kiss. He curled one hand into Pod’s short hair, the other sliding down his back to squeeze his ample rump. After a thorough ravishing, Ramsay pulled back to give Pod another look. As suspected, there was nothing repulsive to be found.

“I’ve never known you to be foolish,” Ramsay chided. “Do you think I fondled your soft flesh wishing it were gone? Those are some of my favourite parts of you.”

Ramsay stepped back suddenly, out of range. Pod was watching him warily, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. Sauntering to a high-backed chair beside the fire, Ramsay seated himself magnanimously, knees spread wide. Leaning back, he was the picture of lofty arrogance.

“Strip,” he ordered, and after a moment of hesitation, Pod began to comply.

Tunic deposited on the floor, Pod worried at the hem of his undershirt, until he caught Ramsay's eye. He tugged it off with swift, awkward pulls. Boots and breeches came next, until only smallclothes were left.

“You can leave those for now,” Ramsay drawled lazily, “Pour me some wine, wench.”

Blushing furiously, Pod did as he was bid, decanting the wine with trembling fingers. He was truly shamed, and Ramsay suspected there was more to the tale. He took the proffered goblet, taking hold of Pod’s cold fingers with his spare hand. He bestowed another kiss on the skin of Pod's hand, before indicating his own thighs with the tilt of his head.

“Hop on, sweetling.”

Ramsay took a deep sip from his wine as Pod crawled into his lap, settling on his thighs nervously. They hadn't played a game like this before, with Ramsay ordering Pod about like common chattel. Still, he had an inkling it might help, and so pushed on. He stroked all the parts of Pod’s lovely smooth skin within reach, reverently, with his empty hand. Pausing intermittently to squeeze at the chubbiest, most appealing parts.

“Perfect,” Ramsay said decisively, “Just what I ordered. Cost me a pretty penny too. You know you’re the most sought after? But you’re all mine now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Pod hissed out immediately, as Ramsay stroked his quivering belly. Quickly dropping his hand to cup Pod’s rapidly growing hardness, in reward for the confident answer.

“I see their eyes on you,” Ramsay growled, “They all want to get their hands on you, touch what’s mine.”

Ramsay downed the remainder of his wine before letting the goblet drop from his fingers. It clanged on the bare stone, the jarring sound ignored completely, in favour of devouring Pod with his kisses. Pod fisted Ramsay’s curls in both hands. Moaning loudly as Ramsay kneaded his hips, before sliding his hands beneath Pod’s smallclothes, to fondle his plump cheeks. Pod began to grind his hips in a slow, stuttering rhythm, as Ramsay pressed him close, squeezing at his soft flesh.

In a flagrant show of strength, Ramsay yanked Pod as close into him as possible, lifting him as he stood up. Pod let out a squeak, quickly wrapping his legs about Ramsay’s waist, to maintain their balance. Ramsay might not be as tall as Dom or as broad as Damon, but he had formidable upper body strength. It was no trouble to walk across the room carrying Pod, and deposit him on their bed.

Ramsay stripped off his own clothes with utilitarian efficiency. By the time he was crawling predatorily across the featherbed, Pod had wriggled out of his smallclothes and was laying prone, watching him with hooded eyes. Ramsay wasted no time in settling over him, pressing kisses and nips across Pod’s soft belly before flipping him over and giving the same treatment to his cheeks.

After taking his time to slowly slick and stretch Pod with his fingers, Ramsay first took Pod on his knees, caressing his curves and the parts that jiggled as they moved together. Tucking his face into the curve of Pod’s spine, panting deeply as he thrust as hard and relentless as possible. Pulling out without warning, Ramsay smirked at Pod’s whine of displeasure. Then Ramsay had him on his back, sliding in smoothly, hitching Pod’s knees up. Again, Ramsay remained largely focused on squeezing Pod’s generous hips, but his wandering hands found their way to caressing every scar, mole and dimple on Pod’s body.

“All of this is mine,” Ramsay insisted, “And I don’t want to lose an ounce of it.”

Pod whimpered into his mouth, rolling into Ramsay’s thrusts, his clawed hands raking over Ramsay’s shoulder-blades. Ramsay licked the sweat from his neck and flicked his thumb over the sensitive head of Pod’s dick until he came with a sob. He pulled out roughly, stripping his own manhood until he spent across Pod’s stomach. His fingertips traced idle circles through the sticky mess as they traded gentle kisses back and forth.

Before succumbing to sleep, Ramsay made a private note to have extra food sent to their chambers when they broke their fast, to make up for the sustenance Pod had lost. Exercise would be enough to keep Pod healthy, and if more rigorous work was needed, Ramsay was only too willing to assist.


	84. Jeyne

THE TIMID TRAVELLER

Princess Arya had been very generous with her gifts, of fabric and ribbons for Jeyne to sew her own dresses, one of the few useful skills she had. It was more than Jeyne deserved, or should hope to expect from her father's lawful wife, especially on the eve of her sibling's birth. But Jeyne was quickly learning not to expect the ordinary from her new stepmother. Princess Arya was not like the women at the Twins.

Jeyne had done her best to keep out of Princess Arya's way, heeding her lady mother's dire warnings, that Arya was the daughter of a Tully. Lady Catelyn's famous disregard for the cuckoo in her nest did not bode well for Jeyne, and so she did as she was bid. But Princess Arya would not leave her be. As the babe within her swelled, she ordered Jeyne to attend upon her, and they sat together in taverns and inns along the Kingsroad, sharing quiet conversation as they moved ever South. Princess Arya was a brash, lively sort of woman, reminiscent of some of Jeyne's Frey cousins, though she was of course far prettier.

Father doted upon his wife, when she allowed it, and seemed eager to spend time with Jeyne also. He made time to speak with her and ask her questions, whenever his duties did not occupy him. For many a lord upon the road wished to host King Robert's eldest legitimiately acknowledged son, and it slowed their procession considerably. But Jeyne took no umbridge with that. Though she spoke true of her desire to see the Capital of the Five Kingdoms, Jeyne quaked in her boots at meeting her Grandsire, the King. He had many bastards, but had only ever legitimised one. Would he be furious that Father had claimed her? Or as kindly as Father had been, after the initial surprise? She dreaded to find out what King Robert's displeasure would look like.


	85. Roose

THE ASTUTE TRAVELLER

Roose stumbled across the boy on a routine walk through the crenellations. He takes a turn about the castle rooftops most nights, having always needed little sleep. His route varies, so as not to provide temptation to any enemy hoping to ambush him. Tonight he had started in the east wing tower, only to be hindered by the boy’s presence. This will not do.

Eyeing the boy, Roose wondered if there had ever been another occasion where they were alone in one another’s presence, without guards and servants and a hundred other ears, continually feeding rumours to the smallfolk. Still, Roose is loathe to give ground at the best of times; he was not about to do it in his own castle. He continued onward. Once he had approached further, Roose could see that the youth was wrapped in warm furs. Slowly sipping from a wine-skin. He supposed dealing with Ramsay would drive even the most patient man to drink.

“M’lord!” Podrick blurted in surprise, tinged with a little fear.

Roose knows he is an intimidating man. He is used to servants and bannerman alike growing pale in his presence. It is a marker of respect, he has always thought, that other men acknowledge his strength, and the bloody history of his ancestors. Somehow it is not a comfort now. Not when regarding the particular man before him. Because despite how unlikely it should be, Roose highly doubts this strange young man has ever been truly afraid of him. If he had been, Podrick would never have showed his face at the Dreadfort. There was a time when Roose would have fervently wished for such a circumstance.

Podrick must have known of him by reputation. Yet knowing what Roose was capable of, the boy persisted in this ill-fated venture with his bastard son. Despite how it irked him, Roose had a grudging respect for the evident courage that took. No man who valued his life would ever continue to defy Roose Bolton, but he did not believe Podrick to be a simpleton. Though he was apparently guileless. Roose would have been glad to have him as a guard in the household, under different conditions. But contrary to the laws of gods and men, this green boy was now living in his household and regularly sharing his son’s bed.

For a long time, Roose could not fathom how Ramsay did not grow bored of this soft creature. Roose could perfectly understand the urge to dominate a tall, broad bedmate. But such dalliances were for unwilling participants, who could quickly be disposed of afterwards. Not for live-in whores, who were paraded around like a prized horse, and invited to sup at the high table! Had it not been for Gwynesse, Roose might have protested more publicly. Though she had yet to be his lady wife then, a more sensible and worthy woman he had never met. She warned him that protesting would only lead to greater displays of defiance. Roose had allowed her to sway him in this matter, because Podrick was a humble sort of boy without being craven, and always mindful of his place. Futhermore, Gwynesse had never given Roose cause for regret.

Roose had never fancied himself the sort of man to be influenced by love. He had been deeply fond of Domeric’s mother, and it might perhaps have grown into a deeper affection, had she lived. Bethany had done her duty without complaint. More importantly, she never gave Roose cause for complaint or embarrassment. He had never anticipated the need for another wife, after she had died.

When Gwynesse joined the Stark household, Roose was startled to find himself deeply enticed by the Ironborn wench. She was firm and decisive, with a meticulous eye for detail. She had a notably profound sense of tradition and responsibility. Roose admired her lack of artifice and falsehood, regarding his pursuit of her. She did not seem offended in the slightest when he explained he could not offer the wealth and prestige that came with being Lady of the Dreadfort. Not until he was certain his line was secure. Once Domeric was wedded and his wife proved fertile, they would be free to wed. She had been satisfied with the reasoning behind his conditions, and they had rarely been apart since.

The sense of contentment Roose found in his second marriage was more than he believed could be possible. It brought him a greater appreciation for joint leadership. He could trust Gwynesse’s judgement absolutely, when it came to household management and wrangling his unruly sons. Gradually he asked for her input on disputes between his vassal lords, and was not disappointed. She had even managed to provide him with his only daughter, against all likelihood. Another member to his House that could be used to form alliances. The old gods had shown him great favour by placing his lady in his path.

Before he even noticed the time slipping away, years of cohabiting the castle with Podrick Payne had passed. Despite his misgivings, Roose could not deny that in most areas, the boy was a valuable addition to the household. He did not engage Roose disputes or open defiance, and the servants reported that he was always respectful when speaking about the family. His skill with Ramsay’s dolt of a son was extremely apparent. Somehow he managed to teach the child without coddling him.

Roose had unfortunately had occasion to cross paths with Robin Arryn, the most spoilt, disgusting brat in all the Seven Kingdoms. Roose would have gelded any boy of his blood that acted in such a manner, to ensure they did not pollute his line. After several painful weeks in the child’s vicinity at Rivverun, Roose gained a greater appreciation for the skill of childrearing. Even if Ramsay had thrown Podrick over for a new toy, Roose would have requested the boy remain at the castle, if only to continue his good work on Roose’s grandson.

But there was never a need, for Ramsay only seemed to grow more enthralled with the boy. Eventually, the truth about them spread. Roose had hoped his reputation for brutal retribution would have been enough keep such unsavoury deeds out of the limelight. But it seemed that even in this, he had been eclipsed by his nearly worthless son. When Ramsay learnt of a bard composing a tune at his lover’s expense, he had the fool dragged behind a horse to the Dreadfort. The man was afforded one last opportunity to sing his amusing ditty, before Ramsay relieved him of his tongue. There were no more public japes about them after that.

It is the fate of all men to be outstripped by their sons once they reach a certain age. Roose had always assumed Domeric would be the one to do so. Domeric was certainly fearsome, and had garnered an impressive reputation on the battlefield. But there was a kind of manic glee in Ramsay when he was inflicting pain on others. He had been the most feared man in Robb Stark’s army, and there were very few men left alive that had ever given him grievance. Roose might have known it would take a special sort of man to gain his son’s attention and hold it, and yet he found himself constantly underestimating Podrick.

Even now, the boy surprised him. Rather than immediate retreat, his usual method when faced with potential conflict with Roose, Podrick instead offered him the wineskin he had been lately drinking from.

“It’s not wine,” the boy assured him, knowing as well as any other, of Roose’s aversion to drink that dulled the senses.

Intrigued by the offer, Roose accepted the skin. Soon smelling that it was filled with rapidly cooling tea. He took a deep drink, reveling in the instant flush of warmth it brought to his throat.

“Unable to sleep?” he asked slowly, as he took in the cold clear sky, which was peppered with tiny twinkling stars.

If Podrick was uncomfortable with Roose’s attempt at idle chatter, he did not show it.

“No, my lord,” he denied, “It was Merik who was having trouble sleeping. He’s soundly asleep now. I thought I might take a turn about the ramparts to wear myself out before returning to bed.”

It was perhaps the most the boy had ever said to him. Taking a seat on the low stone wall beside him, Roose returned the wineskin.

“You are good with the boy.” Roose stated, his voice devoid of flattery, as always. It was a simple statement of fact.

But Podrick did seem shocked then. Though Roose doubted that had less to do with the content of words, than the person that was saying them. Irrationally, he was irked that it should be so. He had been extremely accommodating by allowing Ramsay to keep his lover. Podrick must have suspected there was a motive behind it. In truth it was not wholly due to his work with Merik, who was still a simpleton, and would never amount to much of note.

“Did you ever wonder why I did not have you skinned alive, when my son brought you back after the war?” Roose asked casually, grimly pleased when Podrick stiffened immediately.

“I tried not to, my lord.” He answered at length. “I find nothing good comes from assuming a man’s reasoning, without the relevant facts.”

“A sound philosophy.” Roose acknowledged. “I will not deny that your presence here was an embarrassment to my House. An affront to my legacy, and a son’s effort to shame his father.”

Wisely, the boy said nothing.

“I am not a sentimental man,” Roose stated tonelessly, and fixed the boy with a shrewd look. “You know that to be true?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Good.” Roose nodded decisively, taking to his feet to return to his customary walk. Gwynesse’s sleep-warmed skin beckoned him at the close of it. He made sure the boy was looking directly into his cold blue eyes, when he imparted his final words:

“Then you will understand what it means, when I say that your contribution to this household has been invaluable. And the impact you have had on my son has been immeasurable. There was a time when I believed my bastard was no better than a mad dog. That is no longer the case; because of you.”

Podrick’s jaw moved silently, hanging open for a moment, before Roose turned and began to walk away. Still, he did not think it was only the wind that called out; “Thank you, my lord!” at his retreating back.


	86. Robb V

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

“She’s your sister,” Robb insisted, already sick of the sound of his own voice.

Theon was no closer to being convinced, than the myriad of other times he’d attempted to reason with him. Sansa had begged Robb to come to Pyke to settle the dispute, but he wasn’t sure the trip wouldn't turn out to be an utterly fruitless endeavour.

 _He won’t listen to me,_ Sansa had written, _another King might combat this stubbornness. Or perhaps only a brother. Please come._

How could he refuse a note such as that, from his sweet sister?

Robb had taken the first ship available, from the many docked at Sea Dragon Point, constantly ferrying wood and supplies along the coast. He had just started constructing a port there last year. Now that Theon was finally King of the Iron Islands, they needed a better trade route between their two Kingdoms, located on the west coast.

Sea Dragon Point was the best suited spot for it, due to already being littered with the ruins of small First Men keeps and holdfasts. With the stone foundations already in place, it wasn’t long before the builder’s camp turned from a small settlement into a real town. Once the port was finished, Robb could see it becoming a real city, one to rival White Harbour. Then the North would really be entering an Age of Progress.

He had grand plans for the expanding the largest keep there, but as yet, no lord to settle it upon. Robb had considered gifting it to one of his baseborn sons when they came of age. But he wasn’t sure how he would manage to do so, without his Southron wife taking offense. Rosa was difficult to placate at the best of times; convinced that whenever Robb rode south, it was to fly into Meera’s arms. Admittedly, sometimes that was the case.

But they had all somehow managed to survive the Second Long Night. He was fully aware how lucky they were that had been the case. It had settled upon him that he should not waste time avoiding his loved ones, for the sake of propriety and reputation. One couldn’t live a life only for the satisfaction of others. You had to eke out your own happiness, and denying yourself the love and affection of your family was not the manner in which to achieve it.

Robb wasn’t going to forfeit the chance to spend time with his boys when they were children, just because they didn’t live in the same keep. He kept them out of Winterfell, and Rosa should be grateful for that; the gods know his mother would have been.

If one of his boys could not have it, Robb could always gift the new keep to the Redbolts, making them into landed knights. Robb knew them to be loyal bannermen. Fighting beside him bravely in battle, since the war of the False Stags. Though he wasn’t sure what Ramsay would make of running a harbour. Robb had no reservations about Podrick handling it however, and the vassal households that would be associated with the area. Robb spent enough time at the Dreadfort to know Podrick and Aunt Gwyn ran that household together, smooth as a hot blade through butter.

However, promoting a knightly House, consisting of two men who publicly shared a bed and a name, would no doubt be accompanied by complaints, from other second sons and the like who had no such proclivities. Robb didn’t care one whit who his bannermen shared their beds with, so long as no one was being forced into it. But there were other Houses closer to the keep who would believe themselves just as worthy of the promotion. Namely the Glovers, Forresters, Tallharts, Ryswells and Stouts; all close to the location, and with plenty of young men eligible to be named its Lord. Truly offended men could react in a strange and volatile ways, if their pride was dented. Robb couldn’t conscience bringing the wrath of others down upon the innocent Redbolts, due to his own insistence on promoting them, versus the unwed men of the aforementioned Houses.

There was always Rickon of course. But he was only eleven, and currently Robb’s only heir. If Rosa birthed another daughter, Robb was going to make it official. If only until they had a trueborn son, that he could raise as a Stark.

Mother had fought him with hissed words and tears, when he had gone to Riverrun scant months ago to collect his brother and take him home to Winterfell. Her nails like claws, digging into his arms, as she alternately cried and snarled. Rickon had been happy to go; he’d clearly missed Robb and the fun they used to have together.

Robb was sorry for his mother, who did not like to be parted from her young children. But it was high time Rickon was returned to Winterfell, where he belonged. Naturally, Mother disagreed, very strongly. She tried to argue Rickon was Bran’s heir for the nonce, and would need to be trained as a Riverlands lord. Robb had only scoffed at that. Rickon was a Stark; he belonged in the North. And Bran didn't need an heir yet, he could wait until he married little Roslin Tully.

He didn’t like to push the issue, especially as Robb's relationship with his mother was already frayed, but in the end, he had threatened to take Minisa too, to make her relent. His lady mother cast him resentful looks and hurled baseless accusations at him, though Robb had invited her to come home to Winterfell also. She seemed unconvinced of his sincerity, when he spoke of the better relations between himself and Rosa, and his progress rebuilding the North.

It felt like he had only just returned home, before he was forced to leave again. Rosa was bitterly indignant that he agreed to Sansa’s request, despite her being heavily pregnant. The fact of the matter was, Rosa didn’t need him to be present when she gave birth. But the small Ironborn fleet moored off the coast of Pyke, was an imminent threat. What sort of brother would he be, if he didn’t provide assistance in a time of need?

He took a small force of Stark men, despite Sansa’s insistence that the 'Black krakens' came under the envoy of peace. Those who had sided with Yara during the war of the False Stags, fighting against Northmen and Theon’s forces- their own kinsmen, had been exiled from Westeros’ shores. As per the agreements at the end of the war. Balon had been captured and ‘ransomed’ back, but Theon was King in all but name, and everyone knew it. Dying less than two years after was the most useful thing Balon had done in his life, Robb uncharitably thought.

And now, a further two and a half years on, the disgraced krakens were moored offshore, begging pardon and leave to come home. Theon was right to be angry; the last time he had seen most of them, they had been backing his sister’s claim at the Kingsmoot. Which Theon had won rather decisively, after Sansa had skewered Euron Greyjoy with an arrow through the back, for daring to show his face. She’d even had his body burnt in utter contempt, the most sacrilegious end for an Ironborn. They believed a burnt body could not allow the man's spirit to find its way to the Drowned God’s halls. The Ironborn were all rather fond of Theon and Sansa.

Robb hadn’t seen it for himself, of course. But it was one of Theon’s favourite stories, so he had frequently heard tell of how Sansa had promised to ‘meet him on the beach’. Her greensight allowing her to know Euron was approaching, despite no one else anticipating his arrival. She had positioned herself strategically on the rocks above, and let her arrow fly at the opportune moment.

The surrounding Ironborn had looked around for the threat, readying themselves for a fight, before Sansa hailed them.

Yara had spat out a denouncement of Sansa’s interference, asking by what right she executed a Greyjoy. Sansa replied cooly that she was a Princess of the North, a Princess of the Isles and a Greyjoy herself, about to become their Queen. Euron was a disgrace, and banished under pain of death for his crimes against his brother. Yara had no right to question her authority, especially when Sansa was carrying out her own father’s decree. Then she had invited Euron’s men a home on the Isles, if they backed her husband’s claim. Most of them promptly did so.

Theon already had Victarion’s support, and Aeron’s drowned men telling the more religious among them he was the Drowned God’s choice. Yara hadn’t stood a chance, and no one else put forth a claim.

Robb was surprised to learn that Yara’s remaining supporters would ever dare to show their faces on Ironborn shores again. They’d been hiding out in the Stepstones, and reaving in the Free Cities, which seemed like a fitting spot for them. But the hankering for home was not confined to Northmen; it seemed they wished more than anything to rejoin their kinsmen, and return to all that was familiar. When Robb learned the circumstances around the return, it made more sense to him.

But Theon was unmoved by their pleas. They were technically traitors to his reign, and he didn’t see why he should afford them a home on the admittedly very wealthy Isles, when they hadn’t supported him. Sansa was of the opinion that former enemies, that could be brought into the fold, would be grateful and good allies. But only if they were not belittled and constantly punished for past errors. Accepting them back in this unique instance, would show clemency and forethought- something the Ironborn were not known for. But it wouldn’t make them look weak, because the men had already suffered a banishment, and been stripped of their holdings and ranks when they left.

Robb reminded Theon of this, but he only pouted, and growled that his father would never have shown such mercy.

“Your father was an absolute arse, Theon,” Robb pointed out, rather unkindly.

Theon huffed, but didn’t argue the point.

“I’m not sure I can do it. Yara- she was really all I had left, after Mother lost her mind. And she never cared one whit for me. She tried to have me killed.”

“I know,” Robb said, “But it was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Theon snorted, before sighing heavily, and casting Robb a beseeching look. Theon seemed to know he would be convinced against his will if Robb continued, but he did so anyway, if only to ensure their safety, against the unwelcome Ironborn casting anchor so close to the shore.

“She's your sister, Theon.” Robb repeated, hoping it might help, to keep reiterating it.

“Barely,” Theon countered, dismissively. “She treated me like an outsider, all my life. But at least she didn't beat me like Rodrick and Maron. They were never my family. Not like you, or Jon, or Sansa- well. Maybe not quite like Sansa. I'm not the one who turned out to be a secret Targaryen, in this family.”

Robb rolled his eyes briefly, before he continued his merciless campaign; “Do it for your mother then. She’s regained rather a lot of her mind. Allow her this, Theon.”

Theon grumbled churlishly, but Robb could see that he had persuaded him, even if his big brother was not yet ready to admit it. At length, Theon threw up his hands and let out a resentful;

“Seven fucking Hells,”

before kicking at a chair and stomping out of the room.

Robb grinned to himself, proud to be of service to his sister, who had provided so much help to him over the years.

*

They gathered on the beach an hour before dusk. Yara’s bedraggled followers bent the knee to Theon, who looked them over with a critical eye. Probably calculating how best to separate them, between the Isles and ships in his fleet, to prevent any kind of organised rebellious band of opposition.

But there would be time for all of that later.

Yara lay in a small rowing boat, which Theon alone pushed out into the surf, keeping careful hold of it as he stood beside her, knee-deep in the water. The small, strategically placed holes in the boat’s hull began to take on water, soaking the heavy fabric beneath her, weighing it down.

“Farewell, Yara.” said Theon softly. “I think you hated me at the end; perhaps the feeling was mutual. But you were my only sister. You taught me how to catch crabs, and shuck oysters, and the best hiding spots on Pyke. I did love you, despite it all.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to her cold, pale brow.

Alannys splashed out into the water then, sobbing the way only a grieving mother could, as she stroked her hands over Yara’s dead body. Robb felt a twinge of guilt then, reminded of his own mother, begging to keep Rickon close. It wasn't the same thing, he insisted to himself. Mother refused to come North, acting as though Robb was stealing her son away, as Father had with Theon. But she was always welcome in Winterfell, it was her own stubborn pride stopping her from relenting.

Still, Robb felt distinctly uncomfortable as Alannys wept. Theon eventually gathered her close as the sun began to set, the two of them remaining in the water until the little boat had been carried far offshore, and battered by the rolling waves, leaving only a scattering of bubbles as it was swallowed by the surf.


	87. Ramsay XI

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay was surprised to find his chambers empty after returning from the kennels. It was a bitterly cold afternoon, thick storm clouds casting a pall over the castle, with a biting wind confining most indoors. Ramsay had only ventured outside because he trusted no one else with the handling of his loyal bitches. He had taken a blanket to the kennels, because one of his younger bitches had just delivered her first set of pups. Ramsay had wanted to check over each one, and tuck them up after. Of the pups, the dogs would be sold when they were weaned, the bitches trained to join his pack. Any malformed runts would have their necks snapped and be tossed into the pig feed. But this time he’d been lucky. All five mewling balls of fur were adequate.

There were three new bitches, enough to spare one for Merik, who had been whining about wanting his own hunting dog. Pod had persuaded Ramsay that Merik was old enough for the responsibility. He insisted that teaching Merik how to rear a faithful hunting companion would bond them. Ramsay supposed he was probably right; he had fond memories of Dom teaching him to ride and shoot and play the harp. He couldn’t recall a single activity he had done with his father as a child.

Ramsay changed out of his cold boots, leaving them to warm beside the fire as he tugged on his spare pair. Then he went on the hunt. He first poked his head into the nursery, where Merik and Beth were cooing over Dom’s new babe, Rose. Merik flung himself at Ramsay’s shins when he noticed him, and Ramsay indulged him for a while, lifting the boy into his arms. He leaned over the crib to gave little Rose a quick assessment. The babe was asleep, but her small tuft of hair was dark like Dom’s, and she’d inherited his chin too. Ramsay gave her small tummy a poke, gratified when she wiggled in response.

After listening to his son babble for a while, Ramsay left him in the care of the wetnurse, and made his way to Dom’s rooms. Sometimes, they would loll about in Dom’s solar over a flagon of ale. But the room was empty, the distinct sound of fucking muffled behind the closed door of the bedchamber. Exasperated, Ramsay resolved to find a servant to do the searching for him. At the bottom of the winding staircase, he almost bumped into Alyn, who was emerging from the lower levels, gnawing on a chicken leg.

He grinned sloppily at Ramsay’s look.

“Bertha, the kitchen maid with the black hair and freckles? Been tumbling her for almost a full moon now.”

Uninterested, Ramsay waved this statement away, and asked him if he’d seen Pod. Surprisingly Alyn nodded vigorously while peeling off another hunk of meat with his teeth.

“He’s with Damon, last I saw.”

Curiosity peaked, Ramsay turned and made his way to toward the quarters where his boys slept. Along with their individual cells, his companions had a shared room down there. It was meant to be used for storage, but it was now a space where card games and copious drinking took place. What business Pod could have had with Damon, Ramsay couldn’t guess. They got along well enough. Damon wasn’t the sort for deep conversation, but during the war, they all spent evenings huddling for warmth and sharing ale around the campfire.

But the dank storeroom was empty, save for the usual three dusty chairs, the broken three-legged table and a barrel of stolen ale. Annoyed, Ramsay resolved to wait in his chambers until he heard it. Pod’s laugh, echoing off the bare stone. Interest peaked, Ramsay followed the sound, toward the small room he knew to be Damon’s. Curious at what he might find, Ramsay slowed his steps to quieten his approach, pressing close to the warped wood of the door.

Through the crack at the door-frame, Ramsay could just about make out movement in the dim room. He adjusted his stance a little, recognising Damon’s meaty, heavily-muscled chest as it disappeared behind the shirt he was slipping on. Alarmed, Ramsay’s hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

The bedsheets by Damon’s hips were rucked up round where he was seated, on the edge of the bed. Pod came into view, wobbling a little as he hefted on his boot. He reached out a hand to steady himself, landing on Damon’s thick shoulder. Ramsay stared as Pod squeezed Damon’s shoulder affectionately, muttering something too low for Ramsay to hear. But the implication was enough; the familiarity. Ramsay pulled back from the door in shock, unable to process what he had seen for a long, incredulous moment. Pod… and Damon?

Blind with rage, clouded by disbelief, Ramsay stumbled back down the corridor. How long had this been going on beneath his nose? How had he missed it? He pictured sly looks exchanged when his back was turned, smirks hidden behind hands. Of all the men that might betray him, had never suspected Pod of such base treachery. Nor Damon, whom Ramsay had risen from the gutter, to a position where he could live in a castle, eating regularly, with a warm place to sleep each night.

Suddenly a thought crossed his mind, one which pierced his stomach like a blade of ice. Did anyone else know? Was the whole keep laughing at his stupidity? Or worse, pitying him for so easily dismissing a match with a highborn girl, out of devotion to a man that was fucking his supposedly loyal henchman?

The servants skittered away from his thunderous expression, though Ramsay didn’t notice. He stalked to his rooms, jaw clenched, envisioning a visceral, prolonged torture for Damon, whilst Pod was forced to watch, chained to Ramsay’s bed and unable to help. But no, that would be too obvious, too ordinary. Something more specific, more humiliating, was in order.

Ramsay managed to storm all the way to his chambers before letting out a bellow of impotent fury. A chair was sacrificed to his rage, smashed into splinters before Ramsay was able to resurface, heaving in great gulps of air. He kicked the useless remains aside, throwing himself into his usual armchair beside the roaring fire with a huff. For a long while, he stared into the flames seeing nothing. Then he realised his vision was truly blurred, messy.

Ramsay pressed the heels of his hands into his burning eyes, disturbed when they felt wet. Assuming he had cut himself on the broken wood, he dropped his arms. Ramsay was shocked to see it was not blood, hot and damp on his palms. Scrubbing furiously at the tears on his face, he laughted mirthlessly, wondering if he was losing his mind.

*

It had become fully dark outside due to the encroaching storm, by the time Pod returned to their shared chambers. Ramsay had barely moved from the chair, brooding silently.

He heard as Pod approached him, but Ramsay didn’t acknowledge him. Instead he remained stoically staring into the fire. Pod leaned down into his space, and pressed a kiss to Ramsay’s cheek in greeting, as he had so many times before. There was no hesitancy nor remorse about him. Not a shred of outward regret that Ramsay could detect.

“Alyn said you were looking for me?” Pod trilled, pulling away. Before he could escape entirely, Ramsay’s hand shot out, swift as a snake. Jolting Pod forward by the hem of his tunic. Pod flung his hands out. He gripped onto the chair arm tightly, to prevent himself from stumbling over it, and falling headlong into Ramsay’s lap. Pod chuckled, as though Ramsay were being playfully over zealous.

Ramsay’s cruel smirk wasn’t enough to dampen Pod’s smile. Pod merely leaned down and kissed his lips, sweetly, softly, as though Ramsay were something delicate, worth cherishing. Ramsay pulled away, turning from Pod’s deceptive lips, closing his eyes on that earnest face. What a convincing mask Pod wore. Ramsay would never have suspected he had just come from another man’s bed, if he hadn’t seen it for himself. Strange, that he hadn’t noticed Pod becoming more proficient at hiding his guilt. He used to twitch something fierce when under strain. But then, war kills the nerves of many a man, making them numb to villaious acts.

Steeling himself to play the game, Ramsay pulled Pod down into another kiss, this one hard and demanding, with bite. Ramsay’s other hand wandered up Pod’s chest to settle around his throat. Spreading his fingers wide, he applied enough pressure to be uncomfortable, but not yet painful. Digging his thumb into the vulnerable dip below the apple. It would be so easy to crush Pod’s delicate throat, to watch him choke and flail as he gasped for breath, eyes wide with confusion and horror. It would be miserable, and prolongued, as Pod spluttered and squirmed. Ramsay grimaced at the thought of it, dropping his hand away sharply as if it had been burned. No, he didn’t want Pod dead. That was too pedestrian, too simple.

Ramsay abruptly wrenched himself from Pod’s soft lips, charging to his feet. He dragged Pod with him to the bed. Pod was still smiling at him, eyes twinkling knowingly. Ramsay assisted Pod with his laces, pushing at the fabric of his clothes as they bunched up in his hurry. He batted Pod’s hands away when he attempted to return the favour. Ramsay had no intention of stripping off a single layer. He was already exposed enough, raw like a trapped nerve.

When Pod was down to his woollen undershirt and smallclothes, Ramsay pressed him down into the furs of their featherbed. Pod’s eyes were bright with excitement, his cheeks flushed with an attractive pink bloom. A foreign feeling clutched at Ramsay’s stomach, something woeful and forlorn. He dropped Pod’s gaze, lest a doleful look was in his own eyes. Falling into the space between Pod’s legs was so familiar, Ramsay almost forgot his purpose. Nearly succumbing to the urge to free himself from his breeches, and fuck into Pod’s tight, welcoming heat. But the thought of sliding through Damon’s seed was a sharp reminder to control himself. Thankfully, Ramsay didn’t have to exercise his limited self-control for long.

The rap on the door to their chambers wasn’t particularly loud over the sound of Pod’s heavy breaths, and the sound of the wind outside, which was just starting to really howl. Ramsay remained focused on their surroundings enough to quickly respond. Calling out for the man to enter, even as Pod blinked up at him in puzzlement. Ramsay tended to curse at anyone who interrupted their fucking, loudly and viciously, until they scurried away. It was unusual for him not to complain at an intruder.

Giving no explanation, Ramsay slid off the bed smoothly, turning to face their guest. As he expected, Damon was stood just inside the door, hunched awkwardly in order to fit through it. Ramsay had suspected Damon was the bastard son of Greatjon Umber, or at least one of those giant-fuckers, for years. There weren’t too many Northmen that ludicrously tall, and Damon shared their over-large teeth also.

From the corner of his eye, Ramsay saw Pod sit up, pushing his undershirt down to cover his knees. The false modesty irked Ramsay.

“You sent for me, ser?” Damon said, clearly expecting to be sent on an errand. One of his hands was still holding onto the open door.

“Aye,” Ramsay confirmed.

He had tasked a guardsman on duty in the family wing with sending Damon up to him, whenever Pod arrived. He was glad the servant had been prompt about it. Ramsay was a man of action, and he didn’t like to linger, unless it was to prolongue the suffering of whoever was writhing on the other end of his knife.

“Come inside! Stop letting all the heat out,” he called, a wide smile stretching his lips unnaturally.

Ramsay spoke with false levity, but Damon knew all his tricks. The fake cheer in Ramsay’s voice only made him tense up stiffly. But Damon did as he was ordered, shuffling inside properly. His eyes flickered to Pod, still perched on the bed, equally confused as to what was happening.

Ignoring them both, Ramsay stalked to the small table housing his wine decanter, and poured himself a generous helping. He didn’t offer Pod or Damon any; Ramsay didn’t want any of the sensations that were about to follow to be dulled in the slightest.

“Now then,” Ramsay said, in his most syrupy sympathetic tone. “Damon, you’ve served me faithfully all these long years. And I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Damon stood ramrod straight as he answered, every muscle tensed for a fight. He stayed well out of Ramsay’s reach. He’d seen enough fools wander too close and feel the sting of Ramsay’s wicked little knife.

“Not good enough, apparently,” Ramsay muttered to himself, before slapping his joyless smile back into place. “But no matter! I’ve thought of a fitting prize for you, for all your long, loyal years of service.”

He finished with a flourish, awaiting thanks, which quickly followed, because Damon knew exactly how to avoid further punishment in one of Ramsay’s games. Ramsay kept them waiting for a long, tense moment, before he indicated Pod with a tilt of his head.

“Well? Aren’t you going have a taste? Terribly rude to refuse a gift, you know.”

Pod gave a horrified jerk backward, as though he was considering leaping to the other side of the bed. Damon’s nostrils flared with surprise, but he made no indication of moving. No doubt not wanting to seem eager. Ramsay clucked his tongue in irritation.

“Ramsay…” Pod began with a shake of his head. But Ramsay dismissed him, eyes still fixed on Damon as he spoke over him;

“Get on the bed, Damon.”

Ramsay dropped the charade, his words clipped and sharp. Damon knew better than to disobey a direct order. He crossed the room in quick strides, settling at the foot of Ramsay’s bed with a graceless thump. Pod shuffled backward, so that his feet weren’t in the way.

Stalking closer, Ramsay indulged in his wine, quickly tiring of waiting.

“Need me to spell it out for you, hmm? Take off your clothes, Damon, and fuck him.”

Pod’s mouth fell open in shock, gaze firmly locked on Ramsay. Damon dutifully began working at his laces with a firm, measured pace. Ramsay offered only a cruel smirk, as Pod shook his head in refusal, suddenly scrambling to roll off the bed and out of grabbing reach. But he was too slow for Damon, who spent a lot of time accosting screaming prisoners and dragging them about. He snapped out a hand and grasped hold of Pod’s ankle, yanking him into the centre of the featherbed, despite his thrashing.

“Ramsay! I don’t want-” Pod began, sitting up and trying to reach the edge of the bedframe, even as Damon settled over him, his face carefully blank. It was a strange look for Damon; he usually deeply enjoyed the chance to tame people that tried to squirm from his hold.

Ramsay was near enough to them now, to bend down, and press Pod’s closest shoulder into the sheets. With his other hand, Ramsay carefully set down his wine, pressing it back with the tips of his fingers until it slid under the bed. No need to spill a nice dark red.

“You’ll do as I command,” Ramsay demanded arrogantly, staring deeply into Pod's bewildered eyes.

Now both of his hands were free, Ramsay put them to good use. Sliding them between their warm bodies, up Pod’s jerking legs, Ramsay pinched his sensitive inner thighs meanly, before taking hold of Pod’s smallclothes and peeling them off.

“No, no, no,” Pod moaned, beginning to weep as Damon wrenched open his legs and forced his way between them.

Ramsay leaned back, ready to step away and find himself an optimal seat. Pod’s hand shot out to grip onto him, in a last plea to garner mercy. Ramsay clenched his hand into a fist as he attempted to tear himself free. But Pod held him fast by the wrist. His iron grip was grinding the bones of Ramsay’s lower arm together.

“Please,” he whimpered, even as Damon buried his face into his neck, verily so he did not have to watch the tears dripping from Pod’s chin, “Don’t make me do this.”

“What’s the matter?” Ramsay pouted theatrically, “Not so appealing with an audience? Don’t pretend you’ve not sampled this dish before, my love.”

Pod’s face crumpled with confusion, and he finally stopped struggling, lying prone. Damon stilled also, and Ramsay looked between them with contempt.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He spat, at last releasing some of his pent up disgust.

With a burst of renewed vigour, Pod slammed his open palms into Damon’s chest and shoulders, until the far larger man relented, sitting back onto his heels, and allowing Pod his longed-for escape. Pod jumped up, and immeditately pressed his face close to Ramsay’s. To better see into the depths of his watery blue eyes.

“You are being serious.” Pod breathed, “Gods be good, Ramsay, why would you think-”

“I saw you!” Ramsay snarled, dragging Pod closer by the neck, tightening his grip menacingly. “Lying whore, I saw you, only hours ago-!”

“Ramsay,” Damon interrupted softly, hunched and conntrite. It was the perhaps the first time he had looked small since boyhood. “This is my fault.”

Reluctantly, Ramsay loosened his grip enough for Pod to wriggle free, sliding out from between them, so that Ramsay might have clear sight of Damon’s sheepish countenance.

“My shoulder has been bothering me, since that fucking horse threw me.” Damon explained, “I know Pod helped you with your leg, and I didn’t know who else to ask. Wolkan’s feeble as an unflowered girl.”

“What?” Ramsay ran his mind through the proposed scenario, Damon redressing in his shirt after Pod’s clever fingers had worked the knots in his muscles into submission.

“It was just a bloody massage. I was going to tell you where I’d been, if you’d only given me a chance.” Pod whispered, tears still lingering on his lashes.

Ramsay grimaced, not yet ready to let go of his fury. “You were putting your boots on!” he snapped, “What else would I think?”

“You could have simply asked me,” Pod replied, “Of course I wouldn’t be kneeling over Damon, filthy boots on his bed. I would have told you what I was doing, if you’d only asked!”

Like plunging his face into a bucket full of ice, Ramsay realised what a horrible, foolish mistake he’d made. He turned to Pod, who was red-faced and humiliated, the neckline of his shirt misshapenly stretched out from Damon’s meaty hands. Wrong-footed, Ramsay’s stomach swooped dizzyingly, the same feeling of misjudging a step on the staircase and plunging down. He reached out a hand slowly, which Pod slapped away, his chest beginning to heave with anger.

“You almost had Damon rape me,” Pod seethed, voice cracking with disbelief.

Ramsay struggled to say anything in his defense, his mind blank, no excuse fortcoming to his lips. Before he could speak, Pod slapped him again. Right across the face, hard enough to make Ramsay’s jaw ache and his ear ring. Snatching a fur from the bed, Pod quickly cloaked himself with it, before charging toward the door.

“Pod-” Ramsay reached for him once more, but Pod shucked him off, and stormed barefoot down the coriddor before Ramsay could stop him. The door to their chambers bounced off the wall with a slam, juddering back into its frame while Ramsay rubbed his stinging cheek and wondered if Pod would ever forgive him.

*

Despite Pod’s best efforts, Ramsay cornered him after a quiet dinner with just the family present. Ramsay grabbed onto Pod’s wrist and propelled him into an alcove, squashing in after him, until they were pressed toe to toe in the small space. Pod ground his teeth together, seething quietly as he stared at the floor, avoiding Ramsay’s gaze.

“When are you going to stop avoiding me? I have already apologised, and you know that is not in my nature.”

Pod had slept curled at the foot of Merik’s bed for several nights in a row, and had made every effort to be out of Ramsay’s presence in the interim hours. They had spent some time together yesterday, when Ramsay had spied him feeding the chickens with Merik. It wasn’t actually Pod’s chore, of course, but Merik very much liked birds; feeding, chasing and generally harassing them. Privately, Ramsay wished he had the funds to buy Merik a hawk. Even if he did, the gift would be useless without anyone to teach the boy proper hawking skills. It was an idle dream.

With Merik in his arms, Pod had been unable to break away when Ramsay trapped him in his embrace. Instead he had stood stiffly whilst Ramsay showered Merik with affection, and nuzzled his nose against Pod’s soft cheek. It was then that Ramsay spoke his apology, softly but firm with honesty. Then he had left Pod to his own devices, until pressing the issue again, tonight.

Pod shook is head silently, then seemed to regret it. Rolling one shoulder as he tilted his neck in the opposite direction. No doubt sleeping awkwardly on Merik’s bed was leaving its toll on him. Ramsay stoked his fingers lightly over the left side of Pod’s neck, down to the dip of his collarbone. Pod was tense, leaning back as far as the small space would allow. Ramsay fought down the urge to seize hold of him and drag him close.

Forcefulness would not return Pod to his arms willingly. Pod would eventually grow tired of Ramsay's lack of control, and leave him. Had it not been for Merik, Pod might already have gone, to go live in the warm South with Tyrion Lannister. Ramsay could not afford to be foolish and lose the chance to win him back whilst he still could.

“Don’t.” Pod squirmed under his touch, until Ramsay removed his probing fingers.

“You’ll hurt yourself, squeezing yourself into unsuitable places to sleep.”

Pod scoffed, unimpressed with his concern. “Now it matters if I get hurt? Isn’t that what you wanted? For Damon to hurt me, enough to dissuade me from lying with him. No matter that I’ve never laid with anyone save you.”

“Come back to our bed.” Ramsay implored, not answering the charge. He pressed a single finger to Pod’s lips, when they dropped open in disbelief, “I’ll have the maids open a guest room for me.”

“And why should I want to sleep in that bed again?” Pod hissed, eyes flashing dangerously.

Ramsay moved in even closer, and pressed a light kiss to Pod’s forehead. Then he stepped back and gave Pod room to skitter away if he wished. When Pod only eyed him with distrust, Ramsay sighed.

“Don’t tell me this one mistake scrubs out all we were- all we _are_ to one another.” Ramsay insisted.

“Quite a mistake.” Pod sneered, beginning to carefully skirt around him, unwilling to listen to more. Ramsay caught his wrist before he could fully escape, spinning Pod to face him.

“Don’t misunderstand me, love,” Ramsay cooed, belying the underlying menace in his words, “You know I won’t ever let you go.”

He managed to drop another kiss to Pod’s pale cheek, before the younger man shook Ramsay off. Pod stalked away, without looking back. Ramsay did request the maids open an empty chamber for him, but he was accosted by Dom before could complete the order.

“What’s this? You want another room at this hour? Ramsay, it’ll be freezing. No need to bother, girls.” Dom said, wrapping his hand around Ramsay’s nearest elbow. “What’s going on?”

Ramsay sighed, offering only the barest bones of explanation; that Pod was angry with him, and wouldn’t share his bed.

“Come along,” was all Dom said, leading Ramsay to his own chambers.

He and Wylla had a room each, on either side of their shared solar. The fire was blazing when they entered. Though it had been years since Ramsay had shared a bed with his brother, it felt entirely natural to strip off his outer layers and burrow beneath the covers together. As if they were still boys.

Once they were sufficiently warm, Dom pressed him for the full truth, and Ramsay avoided his gaze as he gave it. His eyes flickered repeatedly over to his brother as he spoke.

Dom’s face grew more and more stony, until at last he let out a heavy sigh. “Ramsay… how could you be such a fucking fool?”

His words stung in a way Father’s frequent insults never could. Ramsay felt his face grow hot.

“I... let my emotions best me, I suppose.” Ramsay reasoned. He never really thought about why he did things. They seemed necessary or enjoyable at the time. Spending effort reflecting on what he had already done didn’t appeal to him.

Dom cuffed him around the head, none too gently. Shocked, Ramsay finally met Domeric's eyes, as he clutched at his suddenly stinging ear.

“Pod must be furious.” Dom glared at him. “You’ll have to work for it, if you wish for all betwixt you to be fixed.”

“I do,” Ramsay confirmed immediately, “I’m just not sure how to go about it.”

To Ramsay’s surprise Dom gathered him close then, wrapping him into a tight embrace, stroking his hair.

“I did my best to care for you,” he whispered, as though it were a secret. “But Podrick reached parts of you that even I couldn’t. You are the luckiest of men, to find a love that runs deep and true.”

Ramsay considered it; the way Wylla never seemed to understand what Dom wanted, how Gwyn sometimes pursed her lips and shot his father disapproving looks. Pod didn’t glare at him across the table; at least, not usually. Even now, when they were at odds, Pod hadn’t disparaged him in public, as Wylla was wont to do when Dom displeased her.

Dom pressed a kiss to his forehead, another to his nose, then one at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t squander what you have with him. You won’t find it again.”

Ramsay nodded, curling up in his brother’s arms. Tucking his face into Dom’s throat, Ramsay fell asleep surrounded by the familiar, comforting scent of him.

*

Pod cared about other people, in a way that Ramsay had never been capable of. Ramsay didn’t spend time ruminating over such things, but when trying to decide how to make amends, it became relevant. Occasionally, Pod pressed Ramsay to be kinder to his less than pleasant relatives, and not to take out his frustrations on the servants. It was easy to be mindful of his Father, whom Ramsay despised, but feared. But it was made worth his while when he was pleasant to others. Pod was always especially generous afterward.

Pod was genuinely happy when others were merry. Ramsay couldn’t understand it. He wanted his men to respect and fear him. There was a kind of gratification to be found in making men laugh. But Ramsay didn’t need anyone to love him, or so he thought. Affection from Dom didn’t count. Dom was a part of him. They were two halves of one soul, like identical twins.

Knowing it would please his love, Ramsay made an effort to be softer. He complimented Wylla on her dress and didn’t sneer at any of her inane conversation. He did as Father bid without complaint, and didn’t yell at a pair of clumsy servants that bumped into one another. Even going so far as to assist them collecting the clean linen and apples that had spilled everywhere.

He caught Pod’s sceptically raised eyebrow, but as yet no words of reconciliation passed between them.

Ramsay couldn’t stay sleeping in Dom’s bedchamber indefinitely. Wylla had already had an unpleasant shock, slipping into Dom’s room through the solar door. Dressed in only a sheer nightdress, she gave Ramsay an excellent view of her milk-swollen tits, whilst her cheeks flamed to see him tucked into bed beside her husband.

Dom had sent him a mischievous wink, before ruffling Ramsay’s hair and leading his wife back to her room, for a no-doubt thorough ravishing. Even Ramsay could admit she was more fetching with a bloom on her cheek. Still, he was no closer to enjoying his own bedmate.

Eventually, Ramsay corned his skittish lover again, to ask what it might take. They were in the bustling yard; Pod could not escape the hold Ramsay had of each of his hands, without causing a scene.

At length, Pod met Ramsay’s eyes, something hard and unfamiliar in his own.

“You took something from me. Dignity, trust… I know not.” Pod said quietly, “How can we be as we were, when you can so easily humiliate me?”

“Nothing of the sort will happen again, I swear it.” Ramsay vowed, gently squeezing Pod’s hands.

“How can you make such a promise? You never hold much fear for consequences. And what could you fear from me? You already vowed never to let me leave you.”

Anger began to bubble in Ramsay’s stomach again, at the very idea that Pod could desire to leave him. But he held it back forcefully.

“Then take something from me.” Ramsay suggested. “Do what you will, I won’t stop you.”

It would be strange, to relinquish control, but for Pod he would do it. He wondered what kind of punishment Podrick would dream up. A whipping, perhaps? He had suffered the lash as a boy, but it had been many years. He wondered if Pod could make him scream. Pod eyed Ramsay with confusion, before his eyes became unclouded with clarity, and Ramsay could see he had thought of an appropriate penance for him to undertake.

He nodded, wordlessly turning from him to march across the courtyard with purpose, to a staircase Ramsay was very familiar with. Pod didn’t stop his rigorous pace until they reached the dungeons. The three guards straightened out of their slumped, prone positions, attempting to look as though they were hard at work. Ramsay ignored them in favour of watching Pod gain his bearings. To his knowledge, Pod had never set foot in the place where Ramsay did his beautiful, terrible work. He wondered if he was in for a night in a dank, dark cell. A taste of the misery his toys suffered.

Currently, there were four men split between three cells. Two Ramsay planned on playing with, one set for the stocks in the morning, and one for the Watch. Once Pod had stopped blinking, his eyes acclimated to the gloom, he approached the first cell. Two men were hunched in the meagre straw.

“What are they down here for?” Pod asked, turning to the nearest guard. The man shot Ramsay a nervous look, but answered quickly at the unimpressed one he earned in response.

“Theft, Ser Podrick. Couple ‘o poachers caught by outriders.”

For a long moment, Pod surveyed the silent, quivering men. They looked alike enough to be brothers, dank greasy hair hanging limply over ruddy faces, with identical bulbous noses.

“Bring them out, one at a time.” Pod ordered.

Pod glared up at the confused guards when not one them moved. Ramsay watched silently, intrigued. He had not anticipated the involvement of others.

“Ser Podrick-” started the bravest of the three men, but Pod was not in the mood to be denied.

“Do you question him?” Pod whirled around to indicate Ramsay, “When he wants to beat and whip and skin them?”

“No m’lord,” whispered the guard, steadily growing pale beneath his beard scruff.

Pod was known as a tame, gentle sort of man, affable and helpful. Precious few at the Dreadfort had seen him defending Ramsay on the battlefield. Pod wasn’t the sort of man to boast about his kills, leading many to wrongly assume he hadn’t made any.

Without another word, the guardsman with the keys unhooked them from his belt, unlocking the cell door and drawing it back for the other two men to enter. At Pod’s request, the first man was held against the wall, left hand splayed out. Since Pod had let slip what Ramsay usually treated prisoners to, the two young men had started whimpering. Now, the one against the wall began blubbering.

Unmoved, Pod held out his hand to Ramsay, in a silent request. Intrigued, Ramsay unsheathed his flaying knife, which he always kept on his person, in a specially made sheath against the small of his back. He placed his favourite weapon in Pod’s outstretched hand, hilt first, mystified at how the addition of a blade could make his sweet Pod even more enticing. He understood Pod’s goal, then. To deny Ramsay the outlet for all his dark desires.

Podrick advanced on the weeping man, and pulled the smallest finger of his left hand as far out as possible. Calmly, as though used to the action, Pod leaned in close, burying the knife almost to the root of where finger met palm. Pod made short work of ridding the man of the appendage, a fine mist of blood coating his own hand as he cut. His face remained blank and unfeeling. Ramsay was uncomfortably reminded of his own father's expressionless mask.

The second man took the same punishment better than the first, who yowled as though his whole hand had been removed. Ramsay watched the proceedings with growing arousal. Pod was rarely grumpy, let alone vicious, and this new side to him was fascinating.

“Let this be a lesson to you. I have been merciful this day, taking only one a piece. None other at the Dreadfort would have been satisfied with so little repayment.” Pod informed the newly maimed men.

“I was going to peel the skin from your backs and use it to bind books.” Ramsay chipped in nonchalantly.

Pod flicked a hand lazily toward the exit of the dungeons. “Now get out, and go eke out your living on Stark or Umber lands. There's more charity to be found there.”

The men scuttled away, mumbling their thanks through parched throats.

“What about him?” Pod asked of the boy in on his own, a cocky kitchen-hand.

This time, Ramsay answered. “Disrespecting his betters. Little fool is for the stocks in the morn.”

Pod directed the guards to open the cell with only a look, ignoring Ramsay’s contribution. Shaking, the boy rose to his feet, walking to his fate with more bravery than the poachers. He trembled before Pod, but he did not need to be dragged out, saving the guards some effort.

“Look at me, boy,” said Pod, in the softest tone he had used in Ramsay’s presence for some time.

When the boy complied, Pod warned him, “Keep up the impertinence, only if you wish to lose your tongue.”

The boy blanched, clutching his hands together. Pod held his gaze long enough for the message to sink in, before jerking his head toward the stairs they had entered from.

“Go on child, get out.”

The child didn’t need to be told twice, scrambling to freedom before anyone could change their mind and stop him.

“M’lord? What should we be telling m’Lord Bolton, when there’s no one for the stocks?” The guard with the keys spoke up.

“Tell him to ask Ramsay.” Pod replied, clipped and unapologetic.

The guard nodded quickly, as Pod stalked toward the final, most miserable prisoner, slowly rotting against the far wall of his cage.

“And this one?” Pod rapped his clean hand on the bars of the final cell.

Behind him, Ramsay shifted the barest amount. But Pod’s sharp eyes caught it, and gave no quarter. Ramsay felt pinned beneath his gaze, beholden to dark eyes glittering at him through the gloom.

“Rape,” he eventually croaked.

Pod’s head swung sharply back to face the man in question. Ramsay approached Pod carefully, eyeing the dismembered fingers littering the dark floor with mild disbelief. If he hadn’t seen it for himself...

“Did he do it?” Pod asked, still staring at the worthless, confined wretch.

“Aye,” Ramsay confirmed, “Olyvar, Ben Bones’ lad? Heard the girl screaming bloody murder. Caught him in the act. Father is sending him to the Watch.”

“No,” snapped Pod, nodding to the guard to open the final cell. The man skittered away as far as possible, eyes wide, pressed into the corner, clutching the worn stone. But as with the others, the guards made quick work of dragging him out.

“Mercy!” the man wailed, held up between the two bulky guards, “I’ll join the Watch, I’ll serve ‘em good!”

Pod silenced the man by placing the point of Ramsay’s dagger beneath his chin, the wicked tip drawing a bead of ruby red blood. The guards stepped back, their charge held fast by the weapon at his throat.

“Did you have mercy on that poor girl?” Pod asked quietly, his remorseless gaze boring into the prisoner.

The man gaped at him wordlessly, too afraid to speak. Pod didn’t bother to wait for him to gather his wits. Swift as a shadowcat, he whipped the knife away from the man’s neck and plunged it between his ribs.

Ramsay felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The dying man gurgled in disbelief, blood pouring from his mouth, and then his chest as Pod yanked the knife out, to plunge it into his stomach next. Carving a deep line with a disgusting squelch. The prisoner’s shaking hands leapt to his middle, in a futile attempt to hold back his innards as they began to spool out like a line of raw sausages.

Pod ripped out the knife with brutal carelessness, letting the man crumple to his knees. For a short while, there was no sound in the dungeons save for the bloody, choking breaths of the dying prisoner. Surveying the man with disgust, Pod evidently ran out of patience with his slow death. He finished the work with one last stab, directly into the man’s heart.

Ramsay felt his own heart pounding wildly, emotions veering between aroused and unsettled. Pod had never been a cruel man. It was bizarre to see him behave like a savage.

Stepping backward, away from the rapidly growing pool of blood engulfing the corpse, Pod caught the gaze of one disturbed prison guard.

“Feed him to the hounds.”

It could have been an order Ramsay had given. It was exceedingly strange to hear his words tumble from Pod’s mouth. Ramsay wasn’t entirely sure he approved of it. He didn’t have long to ponder his disquiet. As two of the guards began to drag away the dead man, Pod fixed his steely gaze back on Ramsay. Again, he felt compelled to be utterly still, as though he were facing a fearsome predator out in the wild, untamed North.

“Don’t ever do anything akin to that again,” Pod demanded, glancing down meaningfully at the thick smear of blood decorating the dungeon floor.

“I won’t,” Ramsay swore, as solemnly as though he were before the heart tree.

Pod dropped his bloody hand to hang limply by his side, finally releasing the knife. It landed with a clatter on the stained cobblestones. Unheeding of the guard that remained, Ramsay finally closed the distance between them, waiting for permission. When at last Pod tipped his head back, ready to accept him, their kiss was hungry and unbridled, the copper tang of blood rising all about them. Ramsay wrapped his arms around familiar warm curves, pressing as close as possible, sucking heartily on Pod’s tongue.

After a display like that, Ramsay knew he was going to spend the night riding Pod’s dick into welcome oblivion. Lingering anger would make Pod flip him onto his back and fuck him hard and rough, and Ramsay shivered in gleeful anticipation.


	88. Robert III

THE IMPATIENT TRAVELLER

Cute as a button, his granddaughter. Polite too, with honest meekness, unlike his two-faced wife, employing her fakery on a daily basis. Robert was charmed with young Jeyne as soon as he met her, her big blue eyes shining up at him from below her dark fringe. She reminded him of Stannis' girl, the last time he saw her, with the same faltering, unsure smile.

Robert couldn't help but spoil her. His first grandchild, proof that his bloodline would live on. Jeyne blushed deeply and thanked him sweetly, for the dolls he gifted her. They were exceedingly fine, the royal doll-maker keen to remind the court of his abilities, having not been commissioned by the Crown for many years now. Margaery hadn't given Robert any daughters to fawn over.

But like an answer to a wish he hadn't realised he'd made, here was Jeyne, the perfect candidate to receive his paternal affection. Robert was extremely glad Gendry had brought the girl to his attention, and he thoroughly abused the excuse to get out of the stuffy keep. Spending time getting to know his granddaughter, slacking off from his duties to teach her to play cyvasse in the dappled shade of the rose garden on long summer afternoons.

This particular day, they were only interrupted once by his Hand, the impliable Randyll Tarly. He brought Robert a few parchments which required his direct signature and seal, securing Gendry as the heir to Storm's End, though he did not yet know it. Court had grown used to his Prince, his boy winning over the Stormlords that were the least malleable to Renly's particular brand of charm.

While Robert attended to the business of state, Jeyne was shown a sound strategy to place his army in peril, by his Hand. The usually severe Lord Tarly had also been won over by the little girl. He was a good, military man, the kind not taken in by chicanery or charlatans, and unlike Robert's brothers, did not require continuous praise. He was no replacement for Ned, as no man could have been. They were not truly friends, but Tarly was an adequate successor to Jon, doing the work that needed to be done without doubt or complaint. 

If Tarly had any spare sons or grandsons, Robert would happily have arranged a match with one of them for little Jeyne. He wasn't getting any younger, and he desired to see the girl secure before he died. But alas, he would have to look elsewhere for similarly worthy stock.


	89. Wylla III

THE LONELY TRAVELLER

Wylla Bolton chewed her stringy lamb as delicately as she was able. She had to set an example for her girls, even if no one else in this castle had an ounce of decorum. Her husband was of no use, as usual, too deep in conversation with his vile brother to notice her irritation at their foul manners.

“I have been asked to consider visiting White Harbour. My sister writes that my grandfather is ill, and not like to live much longer,” she announced, tired of being overlooked. “I should like to say my goodbyes. And visit my sister’s son, whom I have not yet met.”

“And how do you expect to have sons of your own,” her goodfather said severely, “If you are absent from the marriage bed?”

Wylla flushed deeply, still unused to such public crassness and casual cruelty at the dinner table.

“Wylla is still young, my love,” said Lady Gwynesse, laying a hand on her husband’s arm, “Not every woman can be Catelyn Stark. But they have plenty of time for more babes. Wylla's grandfather does not have that same luxury to wait.”

Wylla shot her goodmother a grateful look. They did not have the easiest relationship, coming from very different maiden Houses. There had been a time when she had felt very threatened by Lady Gwynesse’s presence at the Dreadfort. Wylla had been embarrassed for the lack of propriety the older woman had shown, laying with Dom’s father without being wed.

When they had eventually married, Wylla had warmed to her. As the only other highborn lady in the castle, it was inevitable that the two women would spend much time together. Wylla was not sorry to hand over the duties of Lady Bolton to Gwynesse. Relinquishing her responsibilities meant she had more time to spend with her daughters. Indeed, she had felt more secure than ever at the Dreadfort. Dom was set to be its lord someday, without the possibility of any other trueborn brothers to challenge his authority.

Then several moons after the men returned from the Great War, to everyone’s great surprise, Lady Gwynesse revealed she was with child. That had been a horrid shock to Wylla. She had been told by Maester Wolkan there was a possibility she might never get with child again, due to the difficult birth of her youngest daughter. Therefore she might not be able to provide Dom with any sons. She had begged the old man not to tell Lord Bolton of this supposition. It seemed he had not done so, becuase Roose still expected her to announce a pregnancy. He asked after her health at regular intervals.

Wylla was not ashamed to admit that she had been terrified that Gwynesse would give Roose another son. One that might be named the heir to the Dreadfort after Dom, and ahead of her girls.

She and her sister had suffered men’s disapproval for being female heirs to New Castle. Everyone had expected her grandfather to declare their distant male cousins as heirs after their father instead. She had been glad to escape the stifling atmosphere when she married Dom.

She felt for Wynafryd, who had struggled to find a man that would set aside his House for her. Her sister had eventually been lucky enough to marry a man from the Reach, willing to give up his ancestral claims, and name their children Manderlys. It was the only reason Wynafryd would one day become the Lady of New Castle. It did not stop the grumbling from their male relatives, however, who coveted the wealth and prestige of being Lord Manderly. Wylla did not want the same kind of uncertain future for her girls.

Then Gwynesse had been delivered of her own daughter, bonnie little Ingrid, and Wylla could rest easy again. The older woman had shown no more signs of freakish middle-aged fertility. Ramsay was a bastard, and so her eldest daughter’s claim was intact.

“Perhaps we ought to make a family excursion of it.” said Dom of her proposed trip to White Harbour, “Let the girls spend some time with their great-grand father.”

Wylla smiled, feeling a lump of gratitude catch in her throat. “I should like that very much, Dom.”

“And while you are there, you might work on providing me with a grandson.” Roose interjected, sending a glare her way.

“You worry too much, Father,” Dom disagreed, pulling Roose’s cold attention away from her. Dismissing his lord father flippantly, while shovelling a forkful of lamb and potato into his mouth.

“I worry the correct, adequate amount.” Roose insisted without a hint of amusement. “You have no heir. The situation cannot continue.”

Dom sighed, setting down his fork. “That’s not entirely true. I have Merik.”

Roose’s pale blue eyes seemed to whiten with disbelief. The young boy in question chose that inopportune moment to splash his spoon against his bowl, splattering gravy across the table, and sending a potato skittering across the wood.

“Careful, sweetling,” came the soft voice of Podrick Redbolt, who immediately provided a handkerchief to mop the child’s gravy-flecked hand.

“Your bastard brother’s fool of a son? The heir to House Bolton?” Roose fumed, “I think not.”

His two sons went rigid at that, glaring at their father in ill-disguised fury, a combined force of abject hatred. Wylla shivered in her uncomfortble chair, cursing herself for mentioning the trip. She had been annoyed that Dom still spent much of his time ignoring her in favour of his brother. This awful tension is what she had wrought with her desperate plea for attention.

Podrick, who always had the good sense to avoid conflict with Roose, quickly stood up. He lifted little Merik up from under his armpits and set the boy on his feet.

“Let’s see if Cook has any of those raspberry tarts left, hmm?” He said, to which the boy nodded eagerly, taking hold of Podrick's hand obediently. Wylla watched them leave in mild awe.

She could not understand why, if Podrick must take up with a man, he had chosen one such as Ramsay Redbolt. Out of all the men in the North that might have been willing to bed him, he had picked the cruellest. Yet Ramsay was the one he had chosen to keep indefinitely, even going so far as to take his name.

A more callous wretch Wylla had never met, yet Ramsay managed to incur such loyalty from her trueborn husband. Despite all the treachery bastards were known for. And from his lover, who was a gentle and lighthearted man. Ramsay even got along well enough with Gwynesse, who was in most things a highly sensible woman. Wylla could not fathom it.

“Run along after your cousin, girls,” she instructed her daughters. Rose immediately hopped down from her seat, but Beth frowned.

“But Mother, you said we were not to have pudding, without finishing our dinner first.” Her eldest child reminded her.

Wylla stifled the urge to roll her eyes. Beth might be well-spoken and good-mannered, but she had not yet learnt to read the mood of a room.

“An exception, just this once,” Wylla pressed, willing the foolish girl to move. Honestly, Roose considered Merik a simpleton, but at least the boy did as he was told.

Finally, her girls consented to leave. Wylla wished she could join them without making it obvious she was running away like a child. Once the girls were out of earshot, Roose started to unleash his ire on his sons, beginning with the baseborn.

"Your whore has more sense than you, to remove that boy from my sight. But you are more stupid than that empty-minded child, if you think I will be deceived into allowing your base blood to inherit this castle."

Ramsay said nothing, breathing heavily through his nose. His eyes were wide with outrage. Wylla wondered hysterically if Roose understood exactly how much danger he was in. She had seen Ramsay cut the tongue out of the last man that had insulted Podrick.

“You will cease this foolish talk at once. You have a perfectly good wife, proven fertile; make use of her.” Roose growled at Dom, “If I can manage to beget a daughter upon my wife, then you can manage to provide me with one grandson of sound mind.”

Wylla leaned back as far as her chair would allow her. Ramsay’s hand was tense on his knife. She knew it would be but one flick of his wrist, and he might end his father’s life. For a wild moment, she thought he might actually attempt it. But at long length, Ramsay pressed his hand flat on the knife’s hilt, splaying his fingers open wide.

“And if I don’t?” Dom challenged his father, all pretence of nonchalance dissolved.

“You will,” Roose said firmly. “Or I may be forced to… help your wife to have a son.”

For a moment there was nothing but stunned silence. Then Dom leapt to his feet, kicking his chair away with such force that it slammed into the far wall and splintered with a magnificent crack. Terrified, Wylla stopped pretending to be brave, and fled from the room.

She did not stop running, until she was safely locked inside her personal bedchamber. She allowed herself a moment to pant in terror, trembling in tears. Then she began to tear her dresses from her wardrobe. She could not get out of this accursed castle soon enough.

*

In subsequent years, Wylla would look back on that time in her life with a kind of muted horror. As the years progressed, the details became fuzzy around the edges. Dom didn’t talk of naming Merik as his heir again, even though she never gave him any other children, and Roose continued to be bitter about it.

Wylla was too focused on trying to secure good marriages for her girls, and avoiding Roose at all costs, to notice what else was happening in the Dreadfort. She struggled with Beth, for the same reasons that Wynafryd had. Because of this, she did not pay attention to the other children, and came to rue her mistake.

When Merik and his aunt by blood but younger in age, Ingrid, announced their intention to wed, Wylla was naively pleased for them. It seemed a neat solution all round. To have her husband’s only trueborn sibling, neatly wed to his only nephew. The Bolton cadet branch would gain true legitimacy through Ingrid. Wylla could not understand Gwynesse’s look of abject triumph when Merik came to claim her daughter before the old gods. It was only later, after Roose was dead, that Wylla saw what had happened beneath her very nose.

When he ascended to the rank of Lord Bolton, Dom knighted Merik. Even though the boy had been no man’s squire. Afterward, they told her that from then on, the boy was to be known as Merik Bolton. Finally, as Gwynesse smirked at her from across the banquet table, Wylla understood that neither of her daughters would ever be the Lady of the Dreadfort.


	90. Merik

THE NEBULOUS TRAVELLER

Merik Redbolt was not aware that there was anything unusual in having a Father and a Pod, until they had occasion to leave the Dreadfort. At the Dreadfort, everything had a place, and made perfect sense. He lived with all his family. His grandparents and Uncle Dom and Aunt Wylla, his cousins, and baby Aunt Ingrid. The world outside of the Dreadfort was not so easy to understand. Merik knew they lived in the Kingdom of the North, which was very large. The Dreadfort was somewhere in the middle, but Aunt Wylla’s family lived on the coast which was far away.

Sometimes, they travelled to White Harbour, to play with Beth and Rosy’s fat cousins. Things there were different, and not in a way that Merik found exciting. They just had a lot more people, and everyone spoke very loudly. The worst thing about it, however, was that Pod did not spend so much time with them.

Pod slept in a chamber far away from Father and Merik, and did not sit with them at meal times. Merik didn’t like that most of all, because Father wasn’t half so good at cutting up his meat. But Pod still told him a story before tucking him into bed, and helped him onto his pony, when they went out riding. Father was often busy with Uncle Dom. But Pod took him to the market to eat cockles and whelks, and down to the harbour to look at the boats. Merik liked that very much, because there were many types of gulls there that squawked when Merik squawked back.

Still, it was strange to be without him sometimes, especially when other people didn’t seem to understand the function of a Pod. Merik heard someone refer to him as his guard, which was silly because Pod didn’t even dress in the Bolton livery. And Wyrik Tarly seemed to think Pod was Merik's distant cousin, because they shared the same House name.

“Pod is my Father’s wife.” Merik insisted to the other boy, who obviously did not know much about House Bolton and its cadet branches.

Wyrik, who was dressed in an orange tunic which made him look like a big round pumpkin squashed into the patch, made a strange face at that. He seemed to be suspicious, but Merik was not very good at reading faces. He found it easier to understand tones of voice. Pod had a very kind voice, whereas Father had a different voices for different things.

“But Ser Podrick is a man!” Wyrik cried out, as though he thought Merik were japing. As if that would make a difference to Fathers and their wives.

Merik could not understand the surprise in the boy’s tone. “So?”

As usual, Beth chose to interrupt their conversation, flipping her long hair over her shoulder with an arrogant swish.

“Wyrik is right,” she said haughtily, “Mother says Pod is Uncle Ramsay’s parr-more, which means you’re not married.”

Merik was not fond of his cousin Beth. She was the eldest, and thought she therefore knew everything. He much preferred Rosy, who liked to play with him. Their favourite game was Knights and Dragons. It was the most fun because Rosy made a very good dragon. Roaring and shrieking, whilst Merik tried to get at the treasure (which was usually a tray of jam tarts).

But sometimes Rosy wanted to be the Knight, which was also fun. Because then Merik could sit under the table, and pretend it was a dungeon. Then he would get to be the fair Prince who needed to be rescued. Sometimes Pod would consent to play the dragon for them and chase them about, as they tried to ‘flee’ from the dungeon. Sometimes they were both dragons, and they hunted Pod through the godswood before roasting him for dinner. Beth rarely wanted to play with them, not even when her stupid cousins Wyrik and Mylessa wanted to join in.

“That’s not true!” Merik pouted, wishing he knew what a ‘parr-more’ was.

“It is so,” Beth countered, “The Dornish have parr-mores instead of wives all the time. Even Prince Oberyn Martell.”

“The Dornish are stupid.” Merik countered, before running off to find Rosy to play with instead, because she didn’t say stupid, untrue things.

That night when Pod came to tell him a story and kiss him goodnight, Merik decided to settle the matter once and for all. Asking if it was true that Pod and Father were not married. Merik was distressed to find this was indeed the case.

“But why not?” he moaned, “Now Beth will be right again!”

“I’m sorry for that, sweetling,” Pod said, pressing a kiss to Merik’s forehead. It did nothing to make him less grumpy at the thought of Beth being smug as usual.

“But why don’t you marry? If you're not Father's wife, then he doesn’t have one.” Merik pointed this out with great emphasis, as though Pod might somehow have been unaware of this important fact.

“Well, your Father would have to ask me first.” Pod whispered conspiratorially, “That’s how marriage works.”

Satisfied with this surmountable obstacle at least, Merik consented to snuggle down to sleep.

*

Father proved to be more difficult than Merik had anticipated. He was very busy at New Castle, talking to other men who were also very busy, and it was hard to get a moment alone with him. When Merik succeeded, Father only wanted to ask about Wyrik. It was terribly frustrating.

When at last Merik caught his Father alone in their guest solar, he found himself tongue-tied, which sometimes happened to him. Eventually, he simply blurted out;

“Why have you not married?” which was not very specific or helpful.

Father lowered down the parchment he had been reading through then, and levelled Merik with a very narrow look from over the top of it.

“Should you like me to marry?” he asked, in same the cold way that grandfather usually spoke to Merik.

Still, Merik was not frightened. The answer seemed very obvious to him.

“Yes!” he demanded.

But if anything, Father seemed even more annoyed. He set down the scroll he had been reading with a decisive thump, and turned the full force of his glare at him. Merik did very well not to flinch, he thought.

“Is that so?” Father hissed at him. “You have never expressed doubt about our household before. Who can have been putting these ideas in your head, hmm?”

Father’s eye took on the dangerous glint, which Merik did recognize, as it meant someone was about to be in big trouble. Briefly, he considered volunteering Beth. But scowled when he remembered that Father would leave Beth’s punishment to Uncle Dom, as he always did.

“Wyrik Tarly said you were not yet married to Pod, and-”

“Pod?” said Father, baffled.

“Yes, and-” Merik barreled onward, until Father stilled his tongue by holding up his hand for silence. Merik knew better than to talk then.

“Am I to understand,” Father said slowly, “That you are speaking of a marriage between myself and Pod?”

Merik blinked at him, though he supposed it was true that he hadn’t mentioned that part in the beginning. “Who else?”

Father smirked at him then, and beckoned him closer. It wasn’t usual for Father to embrace him, or press a kiss to his cheek. But he did both of those things then, before instructing Merik to run along and play. Without agreeing to marry Pod, which was disappointing. But Merik knew better than to linger when he’d been given a command, so he went to find Rosy to play at being dragons. He was going to be Sunfyre the Golden this time.

When they were about to leave White Harbour and go home, Father presented Pod with a large cherry tree. It was a gift, to take home and plant in the godswood. Pod blushed something fierce, especially when Father kissed his cheek right there in front of everyone. Wyrik frowned at that, so Merik stuck his tongue out at him.

Once a year on Pod’s nameday, Cook baked a sour black cherry tart, because it was Pod’s favourite. But it was too difficult to get enough cherries to make them all year round. That meant it was a very special treat, and Merik wasn't allowed to have a large slice because the biggest piece was always for Pod. Now, because of the new tree, they would be able to have it far more often, with larger slices.

Father and Pod didn’t marry, but Merik supposed a life's supply of cherries was an outcome just as sweet.


	91. Robert IV

THE IMPATIENT TRAVELLER

They cantered out together at a steady pace, the horses eager for it, with confident riders who knew how to mind a beast’s moods. His granddaughter was a pretty, wee thing, but not so frail that she couldn’t bring a stallion to heel if needed. They raced across the grassy plain to the tip of a hill, Jeyne’s sweet laughter ringing out loud and clear on a day with no breeze to snatch it.

“Victory is mine, Papa!” she announced, turning to face him, her cheeks rosy from the exertion.

Robert had grown weary of ‘your grace’ and ‘my King’ after less than a month, and soon ‘Grandfather’ had become to unwieldy for every day use.

 _This is the kind of girl my Lyanna would have given me,_ he thought, as he joined her beside a flowering gorse on the crest of the hill, the finishing point for their wager. Spirited, quick to laugh and grown free with the sharp edge of her tongue, since she had become secure at court. Who could have known that a combination of Baratheon and Frey blood could produce such a beauty, a fine example of a young lady? Robert was half inclined to betrothe his younger son to one of old Walder’s get, to see if the effect could be replicated.

 _Margaery would never speak to me again,_ he chuckled to himself.

“Good view from here,” Jeyne said, running her eyes over the partially restored castle.

Robert nodded, pleased with the work. They’d spent the last three days in Harrenhal, exploring the changes in person. If Robb Stark could garner such respect from his people for his building efforts, Robert didn’t see why the same couldn’t be said of him. Jon Arryn had greatly admired Ned’s boy, naming him shrewd for keeping his serfs and villagers busy. Working together forced the smallfolk to communicate with each other, building trust as well as castles. Men were more willing to share resources and methods for quicker hunting, fishing or better crops with those they knew. It all contributed to good relationships between bannermen and the smallfolk, which could only be good for a realm.

Harrenhal had long been too large for a base landed knight, but too ugly and damaged for anyone of consequence. The rumoured curse upon the settlement made it a sour prospect for most. But Robert wasn’t going to surrender the largest castle in Westeros to Robb fucking Stark, along with everything else, and let him claim it for his family. No, Robert wanted Harrenhal to barter with, Robb's Whent blood be damned. Robb Stark had fought and gained access to the God’s eye, the lake not being far ahead of them now, as they approached the border to the Riverlands.

If Jeyne were older, perhaps he would have settled it on her, to entice a good husband not afraid of the challenge of such a complex keep. Once it was complete, the builders would have removed the most damaged, dragon-melted stones, to salvage the best rock to repair the lower levels completely. The covered walkway between the keep and the Sept was already fully restored, as were the stables, kennels and the paths and borders in the gardens. The lovely large garden would be just right for Jeyne: Robert liked to picture her walking there when the plants had been tended and flowers were in bloom.

“Ser Bronn will be happy here, I think,” said his sweet girl.

Robert watched her carefully, when he replied, “Should you like to be happy here, also?”

Jeyne’s unblemished forehead wrinkled as she parsed out his meaning, letting out a quiet, shocked, “Oh!” when she did.

“I am not sure I am ready to be parted from court yet, Papa,” she said diplomatically, avoiding his eyes.

Robert waved his head until their gazes met again. “Worry not, my girl. I know you’ll not be wanting an old knight like Bronn. Little too much distance between your birth years, hmm?”

Jeyne blushed, but said not a thing. When she was embarrassed, she became a little dormouse, curled in on herself. They both knew a prestigious knight, about to become the lord of a giant keep in fertile lands, was more than most bastard girls had any right to hope for. Had she festered away among her ratty Frey cousins, Jeyne would have snapped at the chance to be wedded to such a man, and they both knew it.

It had been his Lord Hand, Randyll Tarly, who suggested that the Kingsguard be decreased from a service for life to twenty years. Too much pressure was created by absolutes, Tarly claimed; men who could be tempted by the pleasures of wealth and women if they never expected to obtain them. Baelish had revelled in yoking men with their forbidden desires. Some kind of reform was needed, to avoid any repetition of such a scheming sycophant gaining such power ever again. And if Robb Stark was not afraid to expose the dirty secrets of his bannermen, denouncing Harald Karstark as a lecher before sending him to the Wall, Robert could admit that expecting a highborn former lord to uphold a lifetime of servitude with no reward was a tough expectation.

It was fixed that twenty years was enough of a sacrifice; if a man was young enough at the start, he would still be a fit lord for a new keep, and make a good match with a fertile woman, without the gap in their ages being too obscene. It was agreed that feats of magnitude could deservingly shave off a few years, and that nothing would increase it. There was a suggestion at the time, that the Kingsguard which remained could use their time served, as the chance to step down from their position soon. Of those, only Barristan Selmy had served long enough to be honourably released from his service right then, but of course the ornery, honourable old man wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted that his twenty year span begin from the implementation of the new rule.

And what fucking fool would ever willingly relinquish Barristan the Bold as their protector?

Bronn had accepted his elevation to the order with the knowledge that his conduct during the war had already halved the time he would have to serve. Ten years to gain a lordship, castle and a highborn wife were a small price to play for a street urchin sellword trained in fighting pits. His tenure was to end in less than half a year, and for the past seven moons, work had commenced on his future keep. Despite the grandeur of his new abode, Ser Bronn wasn’t good enough for the King’s beloved granddaughter, baseborn or no.

 _Margaery should have given me daughters,_ Robert grumbled to himself, not for the first time. Every man needed sons, but sons would not tend him in his dotage, or sit and read to him, nor did they squeal in delight when he returned home from a tour of his lands or a hunting trip.

It had been wonderful, to watch Jeyne transform into an eligible young lady. Robert spoilt her with dresses and dolls, lessons in graceful dancing, household management and womenly duties from a Septa, and strategy on how to mind unruly lords from Tarly.

They’d discussed matches for Jeyne between them. Though Gendry would be displeased if he wasn’t given the chance for input, the boy did leave his daughter in Robert’s care, and it was a King’s duty to ensure the welfare of his subjects. Tarly agreed that Jeyne’s hand might be a good way to finally bring Dorne into the fold. They had strange views about women and bastards there, being more inclined to look favourably on them.

“Young Dayne might be more your sort,” Robert mused, considering the chivalrous young man, dashing in his silver and purple armour, “Cuts a fine figure on the field, and I know all the young ladies of the court moon over him.”

Jeyne turned red a tomato as Robert guffawed. He’d seen her smiling in conversation with Ned Dayne, and the ladies twittering whenever he appeared in the lists. He was a popular contender with the crowds and a considered well turned out young lord, and the head of his House. For Jeyne, he would be a brilliant choice.

“Lord Dayne is very kind,” Jeyne said demurely, “I am certain he shall make his future wife very happy.”

Robert was taken aback by her lukewarm response. Ned Dayne would be an excellent catch. He and Jeyne looked very fine dancing sets together, his blonde hair a nice contrast to her glossy black locks.

“But he’s not the one for you, eh? Is that what you mean, little one?” Robert pressed. He’d have to halt Tarly’s overtures toward House Dayne if that were the case.

Jeyne avoided his gaze, her look suddenly melancholy.

“There’s someone else you’ve settled your eye on.” Robert declared, sure that nothing else would stay her hand over a man like Ned Dayne.

She did not deny the suggestion, at last turning to look at him again.

“I had rather hoped…” she paused to gather her courage, before revealing; “Ser Rolland is most attentive. Strong and brave, and always very polite.”

Robert absorbed the surprise like an unseen blow. They’d left Ser Rolland back at Harrenhal; though as another loyal member of the Kingsguard, he had protested Robert and Jeyne riding out alone. Perhaps it was not only Robert’s safety that motivated his protests.

“Ser Rolland has many years left on the Kingsguard,” Robert reminded her gently.

“Oh, I know it most likely won’t be possible. He won’t have noticed me in that way, I don’t think,” she shook her head in an attempt to pretend she was unaffected by it, “Ser Rolland has always treated me well, but he still sees me as a child.”

She offered him a brave smile, and Robert immediately saw how deeply her regard for the man ran, and in that moment resolved to do what he must to see her secured with the man that featured in her innocent daydreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harald Karstark (the guy who was hanging out with Ramsay in canon, when Ramsay killed Roose), is a paedophile who likes little boys, according to Smalljon Umber in Season 6. I've not seen anyone else address that in a fic but W O W am I not gonna stand for that to go unpunished. Jsyk, he was torn apart by wights.
> 
> It's a gods-damned tragedy that Barristan Semly never passed on his genetics of badassery. I don't care that he's like 60+ I'd still marry him. What a dude.


	92. Ramsay XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He who wishes to fight must first count the cost._  
>  -Sun Tzu, The Art of War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for one scene of self-harm and referenced past non-con.   
> (It is a Ramsay chapter after all...)

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay watched a single scalding tear slide down Pod’s pale cheek, transecting his regal nose to slip over the tip like a lone drop of rainwater. Uncharacteristically careful, Ramsay lay very still beneath the younger man, who was balanced on his cock and desperate to be fucked. It was almost too tempting to resist. Rocking up into Pod’s willing arse would be so easy. But refusing to drive his hips or allow Pod to roll his own, and work himself into the frenzy of ecstasy he so clearly craved,  was so much more satisfying. Despite having taken his pleasure already, Pod was actually driven to tears of frustration, so keen was he on another climax.  
  
Delaying his own gratification was not a sensation Ramsay had ever considered bothering to try. Not until he and his boys spent a few long hours working through several barrels of ale, and discussed the merits of young bodies versus old. According to some, old men had more stamina, and could be relied upon to keep their partner’s pleasure rolling onward. Repeatedly bringing their lover close to the edge but refusing to allow them the pleasure of tipping over it. This, Ramsay felt he and Pod had already mastered. Surely, this game alone could not lure a young lover into the arms of an old man?  
  
Ramsay had pressed Alyn for more details, and learnt that some men could conserve their own releases, or else achieve several, and drive into their lover repeatedly, until the other had no more seed to give.  
  
“A man can still find his peak, even if his seed has run dry. He’ll still shiver, toes curling as he cries out, just the same,” Alyn swore, with glinting eyes that told of the dark deeds he had done to discover such things.  
  
“But he’s more exhausted, weak, shocked that it’s possible. Scared,” Alyn continued with a sour grin, “Pain and pleasure wrapped inside t’other and unable to be separated.”  
  
Ramsay could not help but hang on his every word. Ramsay had never cared if the bitches he played with felt any pleasure; his was the only pleasure that mattered. He’d never learnt how to make any woman feel good, save for Myranda, and perhaps Violet and Tansy, two of his favoured whores. But all that was in the time before Pod.  
  
Father had stopped Ramsay from hunting his preferred game, when the Dreadfort began being constantly traipsed through by visiting Starks. Lord Bolton had banned all of Ramsay’s games altogether, once they had been invaded by Westermen hostages, lest word get out about the hospitality they received. Starks were not known for their patience with Boltons, at the best of times. They could ill afford to fall from Robb Stark’s favour, when all of the North had united in their common goal, geared up for war with the South.  
  
Of course Ramsay had found ways to evade and disobey his father, none could be shocked at that. But even as young as he had been then, Ramsay was not stupid enough to chase maidens or whores across open land, while their hills were patrolled by Northern soldiers from many Houses. While the castle was full of strangers, Father’s punishment for any embarrassment brought to light would be severe.  Dark deeds must by necessity be performed in secret, if one wishes to continue doing them. Ramsay did not doubt his father would be happy to send him to the Wall or chop of one of his hands, if he displeased him enough. Thus, Ramsay had found other ways to entertain himself. The Dreadfort was housing a number of hostages, after all, and most of them were of little consequence to anyone.  
  
Somehow, Ramsay had never gotten around to resuming his favoured hunting, upon the return from war. Ramsay had barely settled back into his rooms, it seemed, before they were called to march upon the Others. When by some miracle they survived that also, though not without heavy losses, Ramsay was more concerned with ensuring a regular supply of food for himself and the family he tolerated, than the games he might play.  
  
After the fall of the Others, Ramsay certainly had neither the time nor inclination to seek out the smallfolk that remained. Harassing in order to see what he could learn from playing with them was pointless, if it meant culling them to extinction. Ramsay was too busy, with a small son to protect, a lover to cherish and a brother to mind. There were always prisoners to torment, if he needed some time alone to indulge.  
  
Sour Alyn had his own games, and a long experience with them. Ramsay didn’t often interrupt such things, lest he desired a turn himself, with a particular wretch. They sometimes reminisced over past pleasures, but rarely. Ramsay was always foraging for new opportunities, he was not a man who wasted time idly reflecting on past glories. Perhaps he had missed a trick there, however, as he came to learn many rumours about the male body he had not actively made note of before. Taking note of Alyn’s advice, Ramsay was too deep in his cups to note that Damon had stopped quaffing his ale so enthusiastically, and was watching their hushed conversation. He did notice the frown upon Damon’s brow, but as this was such a common expression on his companion’s face, Ramsay thought little of it.  
  
It did not take long for peaked interest to become hungry thoughts. Ramsay let the ale fuelling his recklessness die back a little, by breaking into the kitchens to consume of a vast quantity of sausages that had been rolled and cooked in pastry. Then he stumbled to his rooms, and into the soft, doughy arms of his lover. Eager to be encased in Pod’s cushioned warmth, and try out all his new ideas.  
  
Pod received Ramsay’s deep, dizzying kisses and pawing hands with grace. Not protesting when Ramsay bit down hard on his neck and lips. Soothing the beast that had invaded his featherbed with patient, gentle words and stroking hands, until Ramsay carelessly dropped into a heavy sleep atop him. When Ramsay woke, he remembered little of the night before, save for the urge to test Alyn’s promises of pleasure.  
  
Now, Ramsay settled deep inside Pod’s lovely hot flesh, the secret parts of him that he shared with no others. Ramsay was going to press for more pleasure than Podrick wanted, but it was very difficult to contain such urges, to draw them out. No other creature had ever garnered such carnal sympathy and affection from Ramsay. Compassion was a state which did not come naturally to any Bolton, especially not a bastard off-shot from the main branch.  
  
"Please," Podrick breathed out in a whimper, fighting had to keep his voice even, "Ramsay, please. I can't finish again without-"  
  
His voice was shaking with barely contained misery. Ramsay rolled them over, pinning Podrick to the featherbed with the weight of his strong muscles.  
  
_See how fit I still am,_ his body seemed to sing. _Why would any sane man prefer sagging flesh to the young, virile body I can still offer? Who could possible work your body into such a state of frenzy, better than I?_  
  
Possessive jealousy and avarice battled for dominance over his actions. Ramsay's head ordered him to exert his authority, while his heart pleaded with him not to push Pod too far, lest they frighten him away.  
  
With his legs now up and about Ramsay’s waist, Pod quickly tightened his thick thighs around Ramsay, as if to anchor him in place, or else squeeze him like a rider jockeys a mare. With Ramsay's cock buried deep inside him, but the man unwilling to pound his flesh any rougher, there was little else Pod could do but whine: starved as he was for release. Pod knew better than to attempt to paw at his own lovely cock. Deliciously curved and dribbling slick from the angry head, so hard it was flushed almost purple. It bounced between them with every shift of their bodies, smearing wet slick and drying seed across both their stomachs.  
  
Pod’s haggard breaths were dancing upon the edge of uncontrolled sobbing, a fact which only made Ramsay harder, and less willing to comply. Pod said nothing more, however, all too aware of how Ramsay generally dismissed begging. Though his eyes shone with tears, Pod did not attempt to push Ramsay away, nor ask him to continue. Instead, he bit his plump lower lip and once more demonstrated his boundless obedience, laying still and quiet, a strangled lamb.  
  
After a long exhale, revelling in the power he exerted, Ramsay rolled his hips, brutal and hard. Pod’s nails at first bit into his bare shoulders, before he flung out a single hand to press against the headboard of their featherbed. Lest his head be slammed repeatedly into the wood due to Ramsay’s enthusiastic thrusts. Wails were stymied in Pod’s throat. He was clearly determined not to show any more vulnerability, despite the searing line of his own cock, revealing all his secrets as warm slick burbled out. Naturally, Pod’s reticence only led to Ramsay trying harder to break Pod’s will. Screams and whimpers were two of his favourite noises, after all.  
  
Ramsay leaned in harder, altering the angle to press in deeper. Forcing himself to work his hips slower, in agonisingly prolonged rolls. Brushing light kisses over Podrick's brow, before dropping down to capture his mouth in a quick nibble. That finally made Pod sob out loud again. Ramsay nuzzled at his lover’s tear-stained cheeks, grinding his cock as deep as he could manage.  
  
"I cannot!"  
  
The plea tumbled out of Podrick's mouth before he could bite it back.  
  
But it was a weak wail, so easy to set aside. He was so close to the precipice, Ramsay couldn’t deny him now: and yet he must. If this was to work as an enduring reminder, the build up must be slow, the final release implausibly astonishing. Pod slowly rocked his hips, fucking himself on Ramsay's cock in little motions, seeing what he could get away with before Ramsay seized hold of them to still him. Ramsay rolled his hips, uncompromisingly rough, trying to find the angle that would drive Podrick wild. Curling Pod’s hips up by hand, as he leaned down to kiss him, swallowing his protests.  
  
Before long, Pod was keening into Ramsay’s mouth, close to breaking, high-pitched, needy noises that made Ramsay shudder in sympathy. Pod was so close to the end of his tether, so ready to fall. He couldn't hold back forever, not when Podrick was beneath him like this, begging for it. Ramsay could already feel the siren call of his own pleasure, building in his stones, threatening to drag him over before Pod. That, he could not allow.  
  
Ramsay stoppered up Pod’s eager mouth with deeper, tonguing kisses, fucking him relentlessly until Podrick groaned, and his cock jerked between them, splattering seed against their skin before it pooled on his own soft tummy. Podrick wailed into Ramsay’s mouth, shivering through his release. Ramsay’s dicking was enough to loosen his hole considerably, though it still clenched reflexively, clamping down tight in an attempt to draw out Ramsay’s seed.  
  
“Desperate little tart,” Ramsay chided breathlessly, strong enough to withstand such temptation. Concentrating instead on Pod’s incredulous screech, as Ramsay snapped his hips, continuing to fuck him roughly through his after-shivers. The obscene sounds of their punishing sex echoed across the bare stone of their chamber walls.  
  
"Keep going," Podrick chanted, breathlessly. “Fuck, Ramsay, don’t stop-”  
  
He whined, in pleasure and pain, just as Ramsay had been promised. All the while, Pod’s wet, furiously hot dick was still twitching and pulsing out his remaining seed in occasional, pathetic little dribbles. Ramsay leaned forward, kissing Pod roughly, his cruel teeth splitting Pod’s lower lip and drawing blood. But now Pod matched his hardness, surging up to dig his talons into Ramsay's back, dragging him even closer.  
  
Eventually, Ramsay broke their intense embrace to drive his hips harder, holding himself up and back, over Podrick his head bobbing like a pendulum. Ramsay’s pace was unrelenting, until Pod howled. Ramsay groaned, not willing to deny himself again. Pod’s arse and cock were both pulsing, despite the fact his cock had no seed to release, nothing to spill as he arched up under Ramsay, his back bending like a longbow. Pod was wrung dry. Ramsay finally followed him down through the rabbit hole. Once again shooting his seed into the messy, clinging velvet of Pod’s arse. It was hot and very slick, but not half so tight as it had been. Ramsay dropped his head down to press soft, apologetic kisses onto Podrick's heaving chest - yet continuing to work his dick inside that slack hole, rough and hard as he emptied out his seed.  
  
Humming idly when eased out, Ramsay quickly slipped in three fingers into Pod’s wet hole, wringing out a distorted noise of shock from his lover. Pod shook from the continued onslaught, pressing his face into the pillows upon their featherbed, clutching the covers in his hands and waiting for the inevitable continuation.  
  
“Don’t worry, my love,” Ramsay cooed, blissfully content, “I’ll take good care of you.”  
  
*

  
The following morn, Ramsay yanked at his leather doublet in an effort to make it line up straighter in the glass before him. The slightly worn leather had been scuffed in a few places from general use, but such things could not be helped. The item remained a favourite of Ramsay’s, and he was reluctant to part with it. Once it lay properly, the laces at the front lying neatly down the exact centre of his chest, it was very fetching indeed. Lending him a kind of lordly countenance, that he had never much projected before.  
  
Under normal circumstances, Ramsay didn’t give a rot for other people’s opinions of him, be they afeared or in awe of his fierce reputation. Going about his business with no regard for what others may think of his actions, save for Dom and Pod, and to a lesser extent, Lady Gwyn. His stepmother had his father’s ear, and they had all found life at the Dreadfort much more comfortable since her permanent installment. Ramsay would not like to see what should happen, were he to fall out of her favour. But on this morn, on a day where the North seemed entirely fashioned from shades of muted gray, from the heavy rain clouds menacing the sky down to the pockmarked earth, Ramsay felt the need to be formidable, to all and sundry.  
  
He wore his best sword, and new leather gloves with a thick woolen lining, to wield it with, since it was made of Starksteel. And his blood didn’t carry a drop of the necessary immunity from its frigid menace. But Ramsay would be damned to the Seven Hells before he let the chance of freezing a man solid pass him by.  
  
Despite his chosen weaponry, today’s enemy could not be felled by sword nor arrow, not if Ramsay wanted to keep his head, and their battlefield was one of words and appearance, rather than military movement and political strategy. Ramsay was well versed in inflicting torture upon the mind and body, but he had never had cause to break a man from afar, whom he could not physically abuse in some manner.  
  
Still, he knew it could be done. Men spoke of inflicting terror as the ultimate long-range weapon, so affecting the opponent’s men that they would be more likely to flee than stay and fight. Tywin Lannister had utilised this, ensuring a whole continent was terrified of his retribution, after he had dealt with the rebellious Reynes and Tarbecks. Men thought twice about their loyalties to such a liege. Father was another such man, his cold demeanour and complete lack of humour a clear indication that he would take no insult as a jest. The Lord of the Dreadfort was a man seldom crossed, reliant on his reputation to prevent the need for excessive bloodshed.  
  
Even Robb Stark silenced wagging tongues, and no man insulted the crannogmen within the walls of Winterfell, if they ever hoped to gain their King’s favour. Would that Ramsay could exert such a level of rigid obedience. Men were frightened of his battlefield conduct, but the years since the war were slipping by on a raven’s wings, and men’s memories could be short, despite the declarations that the North remembers.  
  
Ramsay knew no man wanted to face him in combat, but it was quite another thing to dismiss his bond with Podrick. As if mentally aware that Ramsay had thought of him, the man in question rolled over in bed, blinking blearily with eyes still thick with sleep.  
  
“Why are you dressed?” Pod asked, stretching and yawning in the same breath, exhausted from their games. “The sun hasn’t yet risen, and we don’t ride out for hours yet. Come back to bed, love.”  
  
Ramsay smiled softly, in a manner he still did not think himself capable of, nor would he expect to know the feel of upon his face. Were it not for the glass which captured his reflection, he would not know the soft look upon his skin to be his own flesh. He stalked across the room in short strides, taking the hand that was reached out to him in supplication. He pressed a firm kiss to sleep-warmed fingers, and saw the acceptance of the inevitable denial in Pod’s eyes.  
  
“Go back to sleep, sweetling,” Ramsay purred, “I’ve business to attend, despite the hour, and we need not both suffer.”  
  
Pod sighed, taking back his hand. But his smile was gentle, if not a tad amused at Ramsay’s capacity for self-infliction. Pod was not an early riser, and he would curse the Seven he no longer prayed to if Ramsay had suggested he leave the bed himself.  
  
He accepted the kiss Ramsay pressed to his forehead with a hum, before his curiosity forced him to ask what business exactly could not wait until a decent hour. The answer Ramsay gave him was enough to have his eyebrows shooting into his mussed hairline, but he snuggled down into the covers when Ramsay again bid him to get more sleep. He was already lightly snoring by the time Ramsay quietly closed the door to their chambers behind himself.  
  
He darted down the familiar corridors of the Dreadfort with a light foot, content to make his way by inner sense alone, the sconces no longer burning, and the arrow slits at this level not wide enough to let in enough light to see by. A murder could be committed in such darkness and not be discovered for hours, Ramsay had often thought, on early mornings when he had lain awake musing on whatever foul insult Father had recently bestowed upon him. But such thoughts were probably idle. He could not guarantee such a deed would never have its author discovered, and he did not want to ever face a day where he was placed between his brother and the bannermen that would surely abandon Domeric over the crime of kinslaying. Ramsay could not place his brother in such a position. Not when there was a small part of him that was not entirely sure Dom would allow him to escape retribution for such an act.  
  
Ramsay alighted the staircase which led to the quickest route outside, with ease and no incident. He quickly found himself outside in the still dark morn, the moon not yet fallen, though the sun crested the ink blue waves of the horizon. He crunched through the frosted dew of the muddy courtyard, his breath visible in the rimy air. The steps he trod was not a familiar path, having no reason to tread them often, save for ceremonial events.  
  
Ramsay entered the godswood with the brash overconfidence of the insecure, not arrogant enough to be dismissive, but with his chest puffed up as though the gods were already judging him. And perhaps they were. In the wood, the air seemed closer, the sky darker below the close-growing trees, hawthorns, ironwoods, elms, ashes and yews, many twined together so that their branches grew twisted about one another like the guts of man. Ramsay eyed the bare brittle branches with distaste, bleak and black as they were in the low light. He stomped toward the heart tree with bold steps, already annoyed at his decision to come. He was not foolish enough to place much stock in the gods, who did not appear to care much for the affairs of men. Ramsay had never been a spiritual man, nor was he raised to be. The gods turned away from the bloody deeds of Bolton men, he suspected. The severe, terrible face that was carved upon the gigantic but squat weirwood faced away from the castle, which seemed to confirm it.  
  
The was something wild about a godswood, even the ones in the South, like the pretty one at Riverrun with its flowering shrubs and fruit-bearing trees. The one at Raventree Hall was impressive, despite its dead weirwood heart tree. The thousand beady eyes of the ravens clutching its withered branches seemed to welcome him there. No godswood could be more inhospitable to men than the Dreadfort’s homage to the gods, especially at night when the close-knit trees did not allow moonlight nor stars to shine upon the ground.  
  
Ramsay was careful not to lose his footing, less familiar with this aspect of the Dreadfort than perhaps any other place, save the Lord’s chambers, his father’s private rooms.  
  
When he at last stood before the heart tree, he was glad no one was around to hear the skittering thump of his treacherous heart, which stuttered at the sight of that gaping maw. He could not decide if the Child who had carved it had intended for it to be screaming out in anger, or else in agony. Then he considered the legacy of the Red Kings, who were said to wear cloaks made of Stark skin, and decided agony was the more likely.  
  
Ramsay knelt before the ugly face, red sap spilling from one corner of the hanging mouth like spittle or frothing bile. He considered his plight, before making his offering to the gods. Many Northmen had been appalled to learn that in the days Tyr Stark hailed from, blood sacrifices to the gods before a weirwood was commonplace. But something in Ramsay had settled at the thought of it, like a forgotten ditty dancing on the tip of his tongue, suddenly remembered. They said the sap and leaves had taken their crimson colour from the blood of the holy sacrifices.  
  
Kneeling before it now, Ramsay did not doubt it. He drew his favourite flaying knife from the sheath he kept in the small of his back, and carefully folded back the sleeve of his doublet and the tunic below. With seldom-used words of respect, he pleaded for the gods to hear his prayer, and he slipped the tip of the knife he had carefully cleaned below the paper-thin folds of his own flesh. Gritting his teeth, so that no ungrateful utterance of pain he slid the flat thin blade beneath the first layer of skin on his forearm.  
  
Grunting with the effort of keeping his arm still, lest he shake and slit his wrist clean open, he peeled the skin back like the thin film on a segment of an orange, biting back a moan as it began to hang loose. Ruby red blood blossomed on the pink, exposed under-section of his arm, sliding down his pale skin to drip into the dirt below. The ground gobbled it up, the gods greedy for their sustenance. Ramsay continued his work, the burning pain almost pleasurable, as his nerves screamed out the protest he refused to give voice to. Slowly, the flesh was sliced away, clean and neat like a carved beast upon a lord’s table, slipping from his body as though it desired to rip away as quick as possible. The knife stripped the skin with brutal efficiency, the flop of the rendered piece almost comical as it hung loose, the arm it lately clung to stinging in protest of the treatment.  
  
When at last the section was a long, thin rectangle, Ramsay made an incision with the tip of the blade along the still attached edge, so that the skin slipped free, floating from its former home about his person to flutter to the ground, bloody and wet.  
  
Grinding his teeth, he made a fist of his left hand and turned his arm this way and that, to admire his work. The shiny, blood-slick skin would leave a handsome scar, he thought, something akin to the scrape of a pike, were he to have met the lance of a cavalry man in battle. Ramsay put away his blade, and pulled a small leather wine-skin from his pocket, pouring a liberal dash of a deep red over the shallow wound. Even the slightest cut was capable of seeding an infection, and he had no desire to lose a hand.  
  
Clean bandages, stolen earlier within the sennight from Maester Wolkan’s supplies, soon followed. Ramsay secured the tightly wound cloth with a splodge of sap from the drooling weirwood face. Whispering his supplications to the gods, he could only hope that his offering would be found worthy. Reverently, Ramsay plucked his skin from the sodden earth, and placed it gently in the mouth of the terrible and chilling carved face.  
  
Then Ramsay steeled himself, rolling down his sleeves to cover all evidence of the wound, and tugged out the collar of his favourite doublet with vain flick of his fingers. Thus the time for piety was abruptly done, and Ramsay returned to the usual arrogant swagger he was so known for. He now had the gods upon his shoulders. They would help him expose the godless Southron heathen envoy, whose conniving ways had convinced all others that he had no deep, hidden agenda. But Ramsay knew a shrewd man when he saw one, and he had no intention of losing any precious goods to an old conman. Sauntering out of the godswood of the Dreadfort, Ramsay Redbolt prepared to meet his foe: the ever so duplicitous Ser Davos Seaworth.  
  
*

  
Ramsay glared at his foe, standing at a good distance. Enough to keep the old man within eye-line, without the ugly old lecher cottoning on. Ramsay had been as patient as he could manage, but the day of reckoning had come. No man had the right to waltz into the Dreadfort and attempt to steal Pod right from under his nose. The fact that a man had even dared to believe it possible, was insult enough to warrant his death- envoy to a Targaryen Prince or not. Ramsay’s plan was quite simple; lure Ser Davos away from the others and gut him like a pig. Then leave his festering carcass for the ravens. When Father’s men came looking, they would conclude bandits, and send out riders to deal with the threat. Some unfortunate men would be executed for it; and that would be the end of it. Pod and Father would be none the wiser, and life in the Dreadfort would continue as it should.  
  
Naturally, nothing was ever as uncomplicated as one might hope. Ramsay’s main obstacle turned out to be Dom. His elder brother had been shooting him concerned looks since he’d caught Ramsay watching Seaworth’s first sneaking attempt to seduce his Pod. Dom thought Ramsay’s suspicions were ridiculous, though he did not dare to say as much; not until today, in the courtyard. Ramsay had been sequestered beside the entrance to the kennels, having just finished feeding his bitches. His girls had been snarling and growling at one another as they clawed and shredded their meat. Satisfied with their savagery, Ramsay slid carefully back toward the light of the main courtyard.  
  
He watched with disgust and bubbling fury as Seaworth approached Pod, who was busy directing stablehands, reading supplies for the upcoming hunt. Ramsay watched their exchange in silence, fuming as Pod laughed at something the grizzled old man said. Ramsay envisioned tearing out Seaworth’s tongue with his bare hands. Seaworth would never be able to make another man laugh then, would he?  
  
Ramsay struggled to control his breathing, doing his best to imagine the look of distaste on Pod’s face, if Ramsay were to simply march across the cobbled yard, and punch Seaworth in the throat. Before Ramsay had much chance to test how reliable his patience actually was, Dom appeared beside him, subdued as always.  
  
“Ramsay,” Dom drawled, “Even if Davos - who is a happily wedded man, I understand - was interested in tumbling Podrick… You know Pod would never allow it. You must know that.”  
  
“Do I?” Ramsay hissed defiantly, fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms.  
  
Dom offered him a withering look, before snatching hold of his shoulder, roughly dragging Ramsay into the shadowy recess at the entrance to the kennels.  
  
“Talk to me,” he whispered, pressing his cold forehead against Ramsay’s clammy skin.  
  
Ramsay flexed his fists, trying to resist the tempest brewing in his stomach. It was beginning to churn like a whirlpool, making him nauseous and even angrier that he had allowed himself to succumb to such weakness. Rarely had Domeric ever sparked his anger. Ramsay’s fingers began to shake uncontrollably with the urge to push his brother way.  
  
“Release me,” he whispered, his breath coming in harsh, choking pants.  
  
“Ramsay-”  
  
“Let me go!” Ramsay roared, suddenly throwing all his weight forwards.  
  
But Dom was too fast for him. He had dived after Ramsay, dragging him bodily back toward the kennels. One of Dom’s large hands was pressed against Ramsay’s mouth, the other clenched around his wrist, as his brother dragged him into the shadows. Ramsay flailed and kicked, savage and cruel. He bit down on the vulnerable flesh of Dom’s palm, hard enough to make his brother grunt in pain, but not enough to grant his freedom. Rabid, Ramsay sunk his elbow into Dom’s gut whilst biting down harder, clamping his teeth and shaking his head brutally, until his mouth filled with his brother’s hot blood. Dom let out a scream that was almost a sequel, releasing him instantly.  
  
Then they were brawling in actuality.  
  
Ramsay could hear nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears. The common sounds of the Dreadfort were muted, as though his head were being pressed underwater until he choked and drowned. A punishment he had regrettable first-hand knowledge of, though Father hadn’t seen fit to use it upon him since he was much younger. But the helpless, frantic sensation was the same, the need to claw and rend and fight anything, if only to gasp in another blessed breath of air.  
  
Dom grunted when Ramsay kicked him in the stomach, but maintained his balance enough to grab hold of his ankle, using the leverage to throw Ramsay to the ground with a sickening crunch. For a moment, Ramsay sprawled on the hard cobbles, sucking in his wheezing breath, dazed.  
  
“Ramsay, fuck-” Dom panted, eyes blown wide in shock, apparently worried he had truly hurt him.  
  
Naturally, Ramsay used his brother’s distraction to rear up and land a solid blow to his cheek. Dom’s head flew to the side, and then they pounced on one another again, grappling and wrestling for a hold, scratching and biting and digging into every vulnerable spot they could find. Dom yanked Ramsay’s curls harshly while punching him in the gut, and their fight finally spilled out into the daylight, attracting the surprised yells of onlookers. They traded blow for blow. Dom punched him in the mouth, forcing Ramsay to spit out his blood, before Ramsay bruised Dom’s ribs with a series of punishing jabs.  
  
Somewhere in the distance, a woman was screaming.  
  
Ramsay could see nothing but red; the scent of blood filling his senses. Each and every insult he had ever endured rising to the surface as he pummeled his brother. Always, he would be the overlooked, underestimated bastard. No matter that of the two of them, he was the truer Bolton. Men would always see any child of Wylla’s as Dom’s heir. But that was ridiculous, and they both knew it: Ramsay was more Dom’s child than any whelp she would ever bear. He was the only son Dom would ever need. And Pod was not Ramsay’s in truth and law, not the way a wife would be. In the eyes of every other man, Pod was ripe for the plucking and Ramsay would not have it. For despite other’s beliefs, now and always Dom and Pod, House Bolton and all its gory history- it was _his_ , Ramsay’s and no one else’s: they were allhis.  
  
Dom grabbed his arm, unknowingly clamping down on Ramsay’s recently-skinned wrist. Ramsay let out a blood-curdling scream as his brother dragged his injured arm behind his back, twisting cruelly as Ramsay moaned, blood spilling down his arm.  
  
Then other hands were there, hauling the two men apart, strong arms around their shoulders preventing them from lunging at one another again. Pod was quick to wrap Ramsay in his embrace, dragging him into his arms to hold him close.  
  
“Take the bastard to the cells!” Suggested one bold guard. Dom’s head snapped toward the man, memorising his features for a later date.  
  
Pod stiffened, alarmed, but Ramsay did nothing as men began to advance upon him.  
  
“Touch my brother, and by the gods, I will skin you right here, whilst your family watches.” Dom vowed, panting heavy and slow, pressing his bloody left hand against his tender stomach with a wince.  
  
His brother glared at their Father’s guardsmen until they began to back away, unsure.  
  
Wylla was there, sobbing and wringing her hands, always a nuisance. Ramsay wanted to snap her neck; might even have attempted to do so, if it were not for Pod clutching onto him tightly.  
  
There was a long, pregnant silence, until Ramsay and Dom gradually stopped straining against their captors.  
  
Annoyance stilled bubbled below Ramsay’s skin, but now it was directed at the onlookers, who would surely tell Lord Bolton about his sons’ disgraceful behaviour in the presence of a guest. Father would punish them both severely for such conduct whilst Ser Davos was hosted at the Dreadfort. Such a flagrant, public display of savagery would not go unnoticed by the wider North, but Ramsay could not regret it: not when he saw how Seaworth flinched back from him, when Pod gently began to tug Ramsay toward the safety of the keep.  
  
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Pod hissed, as they began to ascend the stairs that would eventually lead to their chamber.  
  
Ramsay winced, saying nothing as he finally noticed the hot blood dribbling down his arm, coating his fingers. It was not an unusual sensation, but rarely was the blood his own. Podrick noticed the blood with a cry, and Ramsay knew he assumed his fight with Dom was the cause.  
  
“It’s alright,” Ramsay soothed, “Everything will be fine now.”  
  
Pod eyed him dubiously, but did not demand an explanation or contradict him, as most useless people would have. Instead, Pod allowed him to press a blood-filled kiss against his lips. As usual, Pod proved himself more capable than others. He gently took hold of Ramsay’s good arm, and continued to lead the way to their chambers.  
  
Yes, Father’s punishment would be awful. Wylla would be more determined than ever to come between him and Domeric. But Ramsay knew what most men would never seem to understand; it was all worth it, for the look of horror on Seaworth’s face. No man would ever dare to try and steal Pod from him now, Ramsay was sure of it. Especially not Seaworth, not when he had seen, first-hand, just what Ramsay was capable of doing to one of the few people he had ever loved.  
  
That Dom would not nurse a grudge against Ramsay was certain. There was nothing Ramsay could do, that would make Dom no longer love him, of that he was absolutely sure. Even if Ramsay had broken free of Podrick and attacked Wylla, he knew his brother would stand by him. It would take far more than a few injuries to break the bond between them. And far more than prestige to steal Pod from Ramsay.  
  
Seaworth may have been granted a reprieve, but Ramsay was determined to slaughter any other man that tried to steal his lover. But as Pod clucked over Ramsay whilst carefully cleaning his wounds, he knew it would not be necessary. The gods had heeded his prayers. Instead of allowing him to endanger himself by attempting to kill Seaworth, they had instead granted Ramsay the chance to ensure the North remembered what kind of a man Ramsay Redbolt was; and just what his beloved brother would do about it… nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, recently, I accidentally skinned off the top of my finger with a razor blade. Jesus H. Christ, the pain was unbelievable. I'm not talking about a tiny shaving nick like you might get on your legs. I'm talking peeled like a fucking orange. Blood everywhere. It was every bit as gross and awful as you're imaging. You best believe I have new appreciation for what flaying really means D':
> 
> I'm a-okay now, and when all's said and done I now have first-hand experience of flaying so my descriptions will be more accurate, but yeah 0/10 would not recommend do not try at home  
> \\(｡>﹏<｡)/


	93. Robb VI

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

He did not wish to witness this. The mood was sombre as a barrow-ground, when the Ironborn gathered on the shore of Dragonstone. The men tense and uncomfortable, the women kept from the sacrilegious scene. Theon had once explained how the Ironborn had laws regarding death and fire; that they felt as strongly about it, as most Westerosi considered kinslaying or guest right. To burn a man to death, or even just his corpse, meant condemning his spirit to never greet their watery god below the sea. A fate reserved for the worst kind of criminal. Sansa had gotten away with it once, because Euron Greyjoy had been a monstrocity of a man. Only banished because Balon and Victarion could not order his death, for they considered that kinslaying.

Robb did not think Sansa's subjects would be so lenient and understanding now. There were many that felt Theon's death from this ailment was inevitable; natural and correct, though regrettable. With Uri or Jon ready to step into power (pending the results of the Kingsmoot), they thought going to such extremes to preserve one life was excessive. In most cases, Robb might have agreed with them, had it been any man save for his brother. For if the fate of any of his brothers or sons hung in the balance, Robb knew the rules would not apply, despite how biased and unjust it was. For them, Robb would risk all. 

Aemon had not wanted to perform the ritual. He had sworn to his father and Robb both that he would deny Sansa's request to descend into the black depths of ritualistic blood magic. There were other techniques Aemon could try, to restore Theon to health, first. But somehow, Sansa had persuaded him. His sister was not above extortion, and Robb had no doubt whatever she had used to force Aemon's hand, was powerful enough to stop the boy from reneging on the agreement, now that he had made it. The strongest likelihood of the ritual succeeding came from multiple deaths. This was approved of by the bloodthirsty Ironborn who wanted to save their King, and were happy to behead anyone to do it, while Aemon chanted and so on. The objection came from the terrible manner of execution; for the sacrifice was no use if it was not blessed by R'hllor. And the Lord of Light demanded the cleansing purification of fire.

Robb knew Sansa's sons disagreed with her actions, so much that she had threatened them with disinheritance, if they continued to protest, and death if they took steps to prevent her. When that did not work, for the boys were as obstinate as their mother, Sansa made a more direct threat. Earlier that very afternoon, as they were about to leave the castle walls, Uri tried one last time to rationalise with his mother.

Sansa did not let him get out many words, before she calmly used her knee to fell him, by applying it to a man's most weak spot. The boy reeled, sagging to his knees with his hands clutching at his groin. Meanwhile, Sansa had already whipped out a glittering, ornamental dagger from beneath the folds of her dress. Then she held it beneath his throat before he could blink, drawing a single bead of ruby blood with the razor-sharp tip.

"Your father bought this dagger for me," she hissed, "When I was far younger than you are now. My love for him is at least that old, and still just as sharp. I will slit your throat with it, before I let you prevent me from saving him."

Sansa ignored her daughter's aborted charge forward. Thea was stymied by Robb. He swiftly threw out his hand to catch Thea by the elbow; recognising that interference when Sansa's nerves were this on edge, could result in a horrific accident. His niece whimpered in fear. But Robb barely heard it, over the sound of his sister's grief rapidly descending into madness. Sansa's eyes were fervid with passion, as she serenely threatened the life of her own child. He could only assume she was too deep into her despair to truly understand what she was doing.

Despite the danger, Uri continued his campaign.

"Mother, this is profane. I cannot allow you to do this." Uri wheezed, winded and hurting.

Sansa tilted her head, her face scrunching up into a look of confused disgust, before cold fury took its place.

"Allow me?" she hissed, taking a step back, still pointing the sharp tip of the dagger close to her son's face. "I am your Queen, and you are my subject. You do as I command, until I see fit to elevate you. If I ever do. One word more, and I shall cast doubt upon your legitimacy. And all would call you Urrigon Pyke, and you would never be King while your brothers lived."

Urrigon blanched, his face paling at the threat of bastardy more than the weapon held at his throat. Perhaps he knew that Sansa could never slay her own child, despite her demeanour; but a smear on his lineage would never disappear. Robb felt his stomach grow icy facing the proof of his sister's capacity for ruthlessness. It should no longer surprise him, and yet it still did.

Sansa's next words were low and quiet, with the kind of gravitas that came from true intention.

"I brought you into this world." she whispered coldly, "Grew and fed you inside of me. I held you, bloody and squalling in my arms, and swore nothing would ever take you from me. Do you think that promise would be broken, if it was I who took back the life and name I gave you?"

She tilted her head in a kind of parody of deep reflection, before calmly tucking her dagger back beneath the rippling folds of her skirts.; leading the way to the shoreline with nary a word more. No, Sansa was not a woman to be trifled with.

Her power was reflected in the efficient manner in which the Iron men now lashed the unlucky prisoners to their stakes with utilitarian movements, none of them relishing the ugly task. But they worked without complaint, despite their obvious lack of enthusiasm for their orders. They knew their Queen would not tolerate dissent. At least the prisoners in question were those already condemned to death for heinous crimes.

 _They will call her a Mad Queen,_ Robb thought sadly, as the poor buggers began to scream and writhe, when the flames tickled at their feet. Sansa tossed the flaming torches into each bundle of sticks at their feet herself, wanting no man to have the responsibility, taking the blood of her prisoners onto her own hands alone. Despite her outward calm, Robb wondered if Sansa's sanity was truly intact, or if her pale face concealed hidden terrors too brutal to give name.

There was no doubt in his mind that if this gruesome remedy failed, Sansa would be lost to them all for a time. Robb only prayed that she did not lose herself completely if the scheme failed; and live out the remainder of her days alone and infirm, as Alannys Greyjoy had. 

 _Let Alannys be the last Queen muttering to herself while encased in one of Pyke's crumbling towers,_  Robb prayed.  _Let Theon live._

He did not know if the gods would hear him/(despite the baby weirwood planted on a grassy outcrop above them), over the howls of soon to be dead wretches. Sansa had added moss to the kindling, so they would die quicker from inhaling the thick smoke. Still, the show of mercy would doubtfully make any difference to Theon's severe reaction, should he wake and discover the lengths to which his wife had gone to preserve his life.

Yet Robb could not judge Sansa too harshly, for his sister had done nothing that he would not have undertaken himself, were it his choice to make. He too would take whatever steps he found available, no matter how unsavoury, for Theon.

That was why Robb forced himself to watch the sacrifices of the criminals wordlessly, as the fire consumed their flesh with the awful stench of burning meat. Knowing that he at least owed them the dignity of not turning his face from their demise, when he desired it as strongly as Sansa; provided it would bring Theon back.


	94. Domeric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancast for additional/ASOIAF only characters [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595529).
> 
> Maps, family trees etc [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615728).

THE CUNNING TRAVELLER

Dom listened to his wife sob, standing in the stone passageway outside her chambers, without expression on his face. He’d retreated out here once she began to throw her shoes at him. She had always been an emotionally expressive woman. Ramsay carefully approached him, a questioning look on his face. Wylla’s shrieking echoes were bouncing over the stone and no doubt disturbing half the castle. The smallfolk probably believed he was murdering his wife.

“I told her the true reason for our visit.” Dom explained, waving a lazy hand at the howling that was currently taking place in his wife’s chamber.

“Are you sure that was entirely wise?” Ramsay replied, with a look of incredulity at the level of noise Wylla was capable of making.

Dom glared at his thoroughly unintimidated brother, before deflating with a sigh.

“She wasn’t convinced that we should be taking so many fine dresses with us, for Beth. Harping on about how the sea air would spoil the fabric anyway.” Dom sniffed primly, “I can’t have my daughter dressed in rags when she meets her betrothed for the first time in years.”

Not that many had been aware of the secretive plans he had made with Sansa Greyjoy. The family had travelled as a whole to the Iron Islands, when their children were all still young. It was one of the few trips they had undertaken without Ramsay, Pod and Merik in attendance, which Wylla had been disproportionally gleeful about. She revelled in any time she did not have to spend in his brother’s presence, and Dom knew not how to bridge the gap between them. Wylla had been very disappointed in subsequent years, when Dom’s extended family had accompanied them to White Harbour.

Why it had taken Dom to suggest that Wylla might look to her own family, for potential husbands for their girls, he did not know. Perhaps because Wylla had hoped for a more solid base of alliances, and already considered White Harbour their secure allies. She should have known that more blood than her own could secure the loyalty of those that wore the Flayed Man.

It was only after his wife had unsuccessfully assessed several Northern matches, and one from the Riverlands, that Dom pointed out his wife’s sister had an unwed son. The boy was soft and doughy, but less craven than his father, at least. Dom could see how his little Rose would wind him about her finger, when she took her place as the Lady of New Castle. This was of course after Dom had secured a pact with Theon and Sansa Greyjoy, that one of his girls would one day wed their eldest son.

But they had all agreed Wylla was not to know about that until it was necessary. She was still leery of Ironborn, despite Gwyn’s presence at the Dreadfort. Wylla had suggested matches with the Starks, but since King Robb’s only trueborn son was spoken for, had soon given up.

Dom had been more crafty about it. Once Wylla had dismissed the Starks as a possibility, he gave it greater thought. The Greyjoys had been happy to receive them. Eddard Stark’s eldest daughter having grown only more beautiful as she matured into a real woman. Her long red locks fluttered in the wind, her pale skin radiant against the black and gold fabric of her dress. Tired and seasick Wylla looked positively dowdy beside her, despite only being a few years elder.

“Welcome to Pyke, my lords.” Sansa Greyjoy said, with a smile that looked to be genuine.

They bowed and curtseyed deeply, as befitting when one meets a Queen. King Theon was equally regal at her side, immediately opening his arms, calling out for his Aunt Gwyn with great joy. Dom's stepmother pressed kisses to Theon's cheeks, and the two were quickly deep in conversation.

Victarion Greyjoy and Queen Sansa flanked Dom and the rest of his family as they trudged up toward the thin, ugly castle composed of far too many spindly towers and swinging rope bridges. Wylla shivered, ill at ease on the islands, a feeling that would last the entire visit.

“Does your Sight grant you knowledge of the reason for my visit, your grace?” Dom remembered teasing King Robb’s lovely sister, who did not conceal her amusement.

“Of course my lord, greensight is absolutely necessary for me to calculate that you have two young daughters, and I have three young sons.”

He roared with laughter at that, glad that there was no reason to cloak his intentions. He found life a lot simpler when everyone was more honest about their motivations. Robb Stark had one trueborn son, and several bastards, if the rumours were to be believed. Dom knew they wouldn’t inherit the North as Prince Eddard was healthy and robust. If something were to happen to the boy, he knew it was not Bran Stark’s line that would take Winterfell, because they were a cadet branch in the Riverlands. Unfortunately, Rickon Stark was in the exact same situation as Dom; a man with two daughters. So, if the Prince did not have any heirs, Sansa Greyjoy’s line were next to claim Winterfell.

Therein lay the problem. The eldest Greyjoy Prince was unlikely give up the throne of his forefathers for the Kingdom of the North, meaning their second son was more likely to inherit Winterfell. But if Dom made a gamble for the younger son, and young Prince Eddard Stark had a multitude of sons, Dom's daughter would be left with the Prince of a bare salt rock. When she might have had a Kingdom, one which had greatly expanded its influence since the partition of the former Westerlands.

In the end, Dom settled for the safer wager of the elder son. It had been the work of only a few scant days of negotiations to secure an alliance between their Houses. During which time Gwyn was invaluable, as always. Her brother and goodbrother were present during the discussions, and she was instrumental at keeping them in line.

King Theon seemed to have no objections to Dom’s girls, who were pretty enough, with a sharp line of Bolton steel running through both of them. It was the Ironborn Queen that they needed to convince. She drove a hard bargain, but when all was decided, had no real quibbles. Dom agreed to formally write up a missive declaring his daughter’s sons by a Greyjoy boy as heirs to the Dreadfort. After Merik and his sons, of course.

Dom didn’t care what his father or wife thought. Roose dismissed Ramsay’s line because of his birth. And Wylla was much the same, as she had grown up as an heiress, and had developed very Dornish-like beliefs about primogeniture because of it. Dom dismissed them both. The laws of Northern succession were clear; land, titles and all other holdings passed down through the male line.

(After his father’s death, it would be the work of a single discussion with King Robb to have Ramsay legitmised. So that his line could inherit the Dreadfort without contest. Dom wouldn’t consider it as anything other than his duty to his House, to ensure that no man without Bolton blood could attempt to claim his ancestral lands through a marriage to one of his daughters. But all that was to come later.)

For who knew what kind of influence the family of his daughter’s betrothed might wield? And why would Dom wish to relinquish the influence he could exert over another powerful household, though his daughters? Wylla did not seem to understand that Wynafryd’s situation was a rare one. There weren’t too many firstborn sons from families of wealth whose Father hated them enough to agree to strip them of their name and inheritance, practically begging a female heir to snap them up. Dom had heard rumours that his fat goodbrother had even come with a dowry of sorts, like a bride.

Personally, Dom much preferred the company of his goodbrother in sentiment, rather than truth. Podrick came to join him listening to Wylla wail, shortly after Ramsay took his leave. The younger man gave the closed door a sympathetic look.

“Ramsay thought I might be of some assistance?” He said, hesitantly. As though Dom might send him away.

Dom clapped Pod on the shoulder in thanks. His gentle goodbrother was perhaps the only one that might be able to talk sense to his irrational wife. Her hysteria was really growing rather tiresome. If only Wylla could be more like Podrick, his life might be sufficiently easier. Pod was always supportive of Ramsay's decisions, and seemed to anticipate his brother's needs in advance, so that he didn't have to ask for what he wanted. Oh, to have such a life!

"Thank you, Pod. You might be the only one who can get her to see sense."

Dom left them to it, to seek out the one whose opinion really mattered. Beth was busy carefully folding up her trousseau, meticulously tying up certain articles with ribbons of lace to keep them together. She granted him a small smile when he entered her room.

“Good day, Father.” She said politely, ever his little field mouse. Dom tweaked her snub nose fondly.

“Your mother is desperately unhappy at news of this match.” Dom sighed, “It would pain me deeply to learn you felt the same.”

Beth shook her head, her mouse-brown hair bouncing. “In truth, Father, I have suspected you might announce this marriage for some time.”

“Oh?”

She levelled him with an unimpressed look. “It was rather obvious, when you pushed me to befriend the Greyjoy boy on our visit, and then bid me write to him at regular intervals.”

Dom laughed, delighted. Beth liked to cloak her astute mind so that others did not realise how much of the circumstances she was taking in. But she had grown up at the Dreadfort under Roose Bolton as had he, and she was no less savage than their shared blood demanded her to be.

“And how do you find him?” Dom pressed, serious once more.

Beth shrugged. “Well enough. He has a pleasurable turn of phrase in his letters. I won’t know what to think of him in truth, until I see him in person. But it doesn’t matter either way.”

Dom look of questioning had her elaborate further.

“I will be Queen of the Iron Islands one day.” She said simply, smoothing her hand down the rich fabric of her best, most expensive dresses. “I would wed a heifer for that.”

Reassured, Dom pressed a kiss to his sweet girl’s forehead. “That, I would not ask of you,” he japed, “not unless we were very desperate for money, and this heifer was made from solid gold.”

He enjoyed the sound of his daughter’s resulting giggles very much.


	95. Tyrion IV

THE WARY TRAVELLER

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the highly polished mahogany table. The sweltering heat of summer in the heart of the Westerlands was making his neck itch from the sweat collecting in his collar. But he resisted the urge to scratch at it, loath to make any movement that might betray his discomfort. Like his Father before him, he sat before the desk in the gigantic solar of the Lord of Casterly Rock, and attempted to feel an ounce of Tywin Lannister’s formidability.

His cause of intimidation might have been better served, had he met these men in the great hall rather than his personal tower. But in honesty, Tyrion couldn’t stand the echoing hall when it was devoid of people. And this meeting needed to be discreet, if he were to retain any respect from his bannermen at all. He had already been forced to bow and scrape before the Young Wolf, the boy that was now technically his liege lord, seeing as Casterly Rock now belonged to the Kingdom of the North.

The Lannisters’ ancestral home was currently playing host to not one, but two Kings. Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark had each brought an impressive household on their ‘visit’, and yet suspiciously few women. Neither of their wives nor any of their children had joined them, much to the desperate disappointment of Tyrion’s son and heir, Jaime. As yet, the boy was his only child, and terribly lonely. But Tyrion was under no illusions that his wife wished him to come to her chambers again, now that she had done her duty and provided him with a son. Jaime would have to make do with the lowborn children of the household for playmates.

The intrusive arrival of royalty in Casterly Rock was clearly a thinly veiled scouting mission, to ensure that no rebellion was being plotted. Tyrion almost snorted at the thought of it. A chance would be a fine thing. Tyrion was permitted to write to Tommen, Mrycella and Jaime, but though his Maester was supposed to be loyal to the castle, he was not the man who had taught Tyrion his letters. The new Maester was Robb Stark’s man, and no mistake. Tyrion was not foolish enough to believe his letters were not read and analysed for coded messages. His household was filled with former North, Stormland and Reach peasants who had taken wives and decided to remain. No doubt the Young Wolf had him ringed with spies.

Now the three men had left behind their attendants and sat in private, they dropped the pretence of friendship. Though Tyrion respected Sansa Greyjoy, and had always enjoyed her company in Winterfell, Robb Stark was an arrogant prick, who had made Myrcella cry and flaunted his bastards with no regard for Rosamund’s feelings. Theon Greyjoy might be loyal to his wife, but he was Ironborn: just as savage as the rest of his tribe. Father would have been furious at the suggestion that a Lannister must prostrate himself before a pirate king and his Northern barbarian brother.

But Father was dead, Cersei was dead, Kevan, Lancel, Genna and the rest. Tyrion would likely never see Jaime or Myrcella again, though he hoped in time to work on the Citadel, and have Tommen sent to serve a House in the West.

“Now, your graces, may we be frank with one another?” Tyrion smiled, as charmingly as he could manage.

“I think that would be best, aye,” Robb Stark agreed, his words typically gruff and without honey, like all Northmen.

Theon Greyjoy only nodded.

“As you can see, Casterly’s accounts tally as they should. We have not been building excessively nor hoarding anything. Whatever prompted this trip, I fear your informants are not very reliable, if they gave you cause for alarm,” Tyrion smiled, all teeth.

Theon Greyjoy sat up a little higher, his eyes narrowed dangerously. The boy was not at all fond of him, and never had been, though Tyrion had never crossed him via personal insult. Then again, rumour and prejudice could easily paint an entirely innocent man to be an enemy.

“We are not here to accuse you of anything, Lord Tyrion,” Robb Stark said calmly.

The young man had the stoicism of a man three times his age. Tyrion silently seethed with envy at the boy’s apparent effortless serenity. But then, the Young Wolf had an ally with him, and no doubt some scheme fixed between the two of them. They seemed to communicate with only looks and twitches of a lip or brow. Tyrion was at a distinct disadvantage, and not just because his armies paled in comparison to the military might of each of the two Kingdoms, before they were even combined. Allies made in times of war can be driven apart. But bonds formed in infancy, through fostering, that was a brotherhood not easily rendered. Men shuddered and were slaughtered in their thousands before the Stark-Baratheon alliance. The Greyjoy-Stark alliance was worse, if only because it brought his own House to the brink of ruin and extinction.

“The time has come for us to look to the future.” King Theon said evenly, “To ensure peace for all our people.”

“An admirable sentiment, your grace,” Tyrion acknowledged, “More difficult to place into reality than to speak of.”

“And yet we must. So we shall,” Robb Stark declared firmly.

The familiar glint of arrogant youth shone in his eyes, and Tyrion loathed him passionately for a long moment. Perhaps because unlike himself, Robb Stark had achieved his wildly ambitious goals, all before he was twenty. If tales of the North rang true, the boy had had to set himself many more lofty ideals of trade, and the restoration and building of new castles and roads. Tyrion swallowed down bitter envy, chiding himself for being petty. He might not go down in history as the first King of his people in hundreds of years, but Tyrion Lannister would always be remembered as a Lord of Casterly Rock, and the greatest dwarf that ever lived. That was something. He hoped Cersei was screaming in rage, somewhere deep in the Seven Hells.

“As all great men know, it is necessary to maintain ties and bonds with neighbouring bannermen and kingdoms through trade, marriages and fostering,” Robb began, and Tyrion’s heart began to sink, blackening and leaking blood.

Robb and his fucking namesake, Robert Baratheon, had already forced Tyrion into marriage with poor, unwilling Jeyne. A girl young enough to be his daughter, and miserable to marry a man such as him, and not some nice, strapping knight. They would not allow Tyrion to claim his birthright without wedding her, because Jeyne was from a low, relatively poor House, and all of her family had died in the war. Leaving her without friends, and more importantly, no valuable allies or dowry. She was a loyal Lannister bannerman’s daughter, and a maiden. There was no disgrace in marrying her, and Tyrion could find no legal reason to refuse. Thus he was forever barred from seeking rich allies from across the narrow sea or in the Reach, to solidify any real power. He was a figurehead, Lord of Little and Warden of Nothing.

“You wish to betroth my son to one of your bannermen's daughter? Or your own?” Tyrion guessed.

To a girl taught from a young age to value her Father’s House above her husband’s: taught to smile and simper and sing sweet lies while sending little notes about anything of worth to her kin. No, Tyrion would not have it. The insults could not continue in this manner. He opened his mouth to deny their request, but Theon Greyjoy beat him to it.

“Not as yet, my lord. The boy is very young.” he said, his lips twitching into a wry smile, “Too young for Robb’s Cerena I think. And Sansa would skin me, if I betrothed Robbyn to a child she had never met.”

The two young men shared a fond smile at that, and Tyrion relaxed marginally at the sight of it. At heart, these two were still brothers out on an adventure. Wistfully, he thought of Jaime, and when he had finally been able to join him in King’s Landing as a boy, just as their sister was to become a Queen. They were so happy then, though Tyrion did not see it at the time. He had been so very lonely: rejected by Cersei and Father. Uncle Gerion had gone and disappeared, leaving him without friends.

The world had been cold to Tyrion, and moving to court had been a bold splash of colour into his drab days. Life had been so full of promise. Now here he was, alone in Casterly Rock again, with the ghosts of his cruel kin, and only echoes of the past to keep him company. How could he not envy these two boys, gone to war together to avenge the man who had raised them both, who had returned not only heroes, but Kings. Great commanders of men, who had not yet been corrupted by their power. Perhaps they never would be. They seemed to care more for their subjects than Robert or the Targaryens ever had.

Tyrion shifted in his austere, high-backed chair. Not much of the wealth of Casterly Rock had remained by the time he had gotten to it. The Ironborn and Northmen had stripped it of gold, silver tableware, jewels, elegant dresses, intricate tapestries and carpets, expensive oils and perfumes from Myr and Volantis, carvings, swords, armour, and food stores. Even the candlesticks were gone. The majesty of Casterly Rock, once the jewel of the West, was now only in the magnificent architecture of the structure itself.

“I do desire a greater bridge between our neighbouring territories,” King Theon admitted. Tyrion knew by ‘our’, he meant his own Kingdom and Robb Stark’s. Tyrion’s opinion nor rights as a lord no longer counted or mattered to anyone.

“But it need not be a tie between our Houses.” The young Ironborn concluded.

No, he would not desire a Lannister husband for his girls. There were few who desired to be affiliated with the disgraced Lannisters. Robb Stark’s wedding to his hostage hadn’t made it fashionable to tie your House to a clan of incestuous murderers. They had been denounced by Drowned Men, Septons and Red Priestesses alike. The hypocrisy left a bitter pall in Tyrion’s mouth. Every House had its bad apples, stupid decisions and periods of reckless foolish behaviour. No man was proud of each and every ancestor of his line. Tyrion refused to be ashamed of his family any longer.

Jaime was the first person who had ever been kind to him, the only one to love Tyrion truly, aside from Uncle Gerion, and perhaps now his own son. Fickle friends had been few and far between. Tyrion had hoped the lad, good Podrick Payne, would accompany him home. One familiar friendly face at least, in a sea of bedraggled former hostages or prisoners of war. But the war had been good to Podrick, and somehow he had been seduced by that senseless bastard of Lord Bolton’s.

The boy still wrote to him occasionally, and by all accounts, Podrick seemed happy, living in the macabre Dreadfort. He enjoyed a position of influence and wealth there, if he spoke true. And Pod was too honourable to lie. The boy was an avenue into the North for Tyrion, but too close with their new overlords to be of real use. Podrick was _too_ loyal. He would not refrain from giving voice to his suspicions, if Tyrion ever gave him cause for alarm.

Still, Tyrion could not deny he was relieved to be given a reprieve for his Jaime. Betrothals should be a private affair between the relevant families, and perhaps a close friend or lord protector. There was no outside influence that would not feel like tyranny regarding this issue.

“The Crag has been empty these years,” King Theon guided the conversation, surprising Tyrion with the abrupt change of topic.

Suspiciously, Tyrion nodded.

“That is not to continue,” King Theon declared, “A castle left with only a castellan is wasted revenue. It shall be occupied once again. I have decided to settle it upon Lady Morgan Banefort. Her grandmother was a Westerling. It will be her seat, until such time as she is wed and it passes to her husband.”

“Little Lady Banefort?” Tyrion repeated, with surprise that was not in any way feigned. “Lord Banefort has a son, does he not?”

“He does,” King Robb confirmed, “And though the Crag is a more grand keep, I have no doubt young Lord Banefort would prefer to inherit the familiar lands of his father.”

“My wife is the Lady of the Crag,” Tyrion countered, “It should be inherited by one of our children.”

“You have one son, and are not like to have another,” Robb Stark said flatly, merciless.

Tyrion flushed, and fought not twist his lips in churlish embarrassment. No whore had ever had any complaints after a night with him, but Robb Stark, with his broad shoulders, trim fighting form and thick head of curls, could succeed where Tyrion could not; charming highborn ladies into his bed. His legally wedded wife or otherwise. King Robb would never lack for heirs. Tyrion resisted the temptation to curl his hands into fists. But Theon Greyjoy was unable to keep the smirk from his lips, proud of the point his friend had scored: and in that moment Tyrion deeply hated them both.

“The Crag will go to Lady Morgan. Theon and I have settled a household upon her.” The Stark continued, “She will be joined by a Maester, and her uncle as Lord Protector until she comes of age and is wed to her betrothed.”

“I see,” Tyrion growled through gritted teeth, “And who is the future Lord of the Crag to be, your grace?”

But it was Theon Greyjoy who answered: “My second son, Jon,” he said placidly, unashamed by the revelation of this blatant scheme to swindle Tyrion's wife out of her birthright.

“Indeed?” Tyrion attempted to smile. “Then I suppose we shall receive young Lord and Lady Greyjoy, someday in the next few years.”

Robb Stark offered him the ghost of a smile.

They had little of worth to say to one another beyond that; the ruling powers had spoken, and now Tyrion would be forced to obey. The boys had made this trip in person, travelling down from the Ironborn occupied region of the Westerlands together, and no doubt they had secured the Crag, planting their loyal spies and servants nearby, even in areas that were more loyal to their new lords. The West had little choice; most of the men had been stripped of their wealth, executed or sent to the Wall.

Tyrion was a rare exception, a highborn heir who retained most of his lands. Most Houses had been stripped back to women and children, and boys who were betrothed to the invaders. Or who forever lost the chance to claim their father’s keep, when their older sisters were forcibly wed to second sons, if not lowborn knaves who earned knighthoods and infamy in the war. Smallfolk didn't care to keep fighting; it didn't matter to most who ruled over them, so long as there was peace and food to grow and share. But how the Maiden’s ears must have bled from the desperate prayers of Westerwomen, those final months of war. Girls praying they would not be forced to marry their rapists, or other brutes far too base to know how to be gentle with them. Jeyne had wept for her friends as well as herself, as the stories had eventually flowed into their gates.

Lady Morgan was only the latest casualty. A little girl too young to understand how she was being bartered like a prize cow, would never know the choices she might once have enjoyed as the eldest daughter of a lord. She would grow up beneath her betrothed’s thumb, and just as his sister had suffered from her gilded cage, so would this unknown girl. Tyrion could rarely bring himself to feel a teaspoon of sympathy for Cersei, who brought her pains upon herself. But Tyrion felt for the Banefort girl: he too was pressed into an unwanted marriage by invading Kings. He could only pity her, and hope that perhaps she might be a wiley one, the kind of girl that knew how to rule her husband without him suspecting it to be the case. Then she might have a chance at some form of happiness, in the end.

 _And so the wheel continues to turn,_ thought Tyrion, _raising a young girl to the Lady of a great keep, before the spoke of marriage crushes her freedom once more._  



	96. Melisandre

THE TRIUMPHANT TRAVELLER

The night was coming for her. He did not want to admit it, her brave warrior of Light, but then he had always been a stubborn man. Even now, after she had showed him all that the Lord was capable of, he refused to give up his cold, savage tree gods. He would not give up _her_ though, this warrior she had elected to be the Lord's chosen - for she had come to believe human faith had some influence over the Lord also. The Lord of Light would lend his power to his most faithful servants, but also those who did his work despite being unaware. Melisandre had come to respect Jon somewhat for his dedication to his own gods: after all, one did not need to believe in the cleansing power of R'hllor in order to truly do the Lord's work, and someday he would know it.

Once, she would have demanded devotion, complete and entire from a warrior. But the Lord had showed her, through Jon, that it need not be so. Why else would he have granted her aged body, withered though it was in truth, a son? Melisandre had considered the possibility long behind her, save for the shadow children that the Lord would allow her to reap from his servants, and birth into stronger soldiers, ready to do his bidding fresh from her devoted womb. But a flesh and blood child, weak and infirm like all vulnerable babes, that must be protected and taught devotion? She could have had children Jon's age several times over, in the time she had been alive, were it possible for women to continue to do so as they aged.

It should not have been possible, yet Aemon was born in flesh and blood and _breathed_. He was the Lord's blessing upon her made flesh, for all her devoted work.

Though the ruby's power was immense, the glamour it wove was only an illusion, skin-deep. It was fire and magic and stone, which allowed her to walk and more without pain thrumming through her ancient bones. Without her potions and spells, even the ruby would not stop her from feeling the ailments of age, despite her apparent outward youth.

She had always been talented with glamours, disguising the famous white blonde of her hair from an early age, as soon as the Priestesses she was sold to showed her how. At first she had been sad to lose the only prominent feature she shared with her mother, the reminder sorely missed. Though in truth, Mother's hair had been the sliver-white of most Targaryen offspring, and not akin to Melony's shade at all. Despite how much Melisandre wished it were not so, she took her looks from her father, carrying his curse of a body leeched of colour, save for the pinkish-red of her eyes, which grew darker in shade as she embraced the Lord of Light.

Her body had been altered by the powerful influence of the Wall where her husband, as he insisted she call him, had fought back the Great Other and destroyed his servants. She was stronger than she had ever been, able to wield power with ease and strengthen her body against the cold, the need for food, and other base needs. Jon doubted his own prowess on the battlefield at times, but she had faith enough for both of them. Aemon was their Lightbringer, the flaming sword that gave Jon a reason to fight like a fiend, in an effort to return to them.

She was not powerful enough to save herself now, nor did she think it needed. Her work was done. Though she and Jon had spoken words of a false faith before an ugly tree, Melisandre considered herself a Priestess of her Order before anything else. Jon's insistence on pedestrian ritual to sanctify their union was quaint but ultimately unnecessary. She had given the Lord a worthy warrior, by moulding Jon into the man the Lord had always intended for him to be. Her regard for him was an unexpected boon. Aemon had been a grand surprise, and she was shocked by her own capacity to love him so deeply. But she was not brought into this world to be a mother. She was a servant of her Lord, and he had seen fit to call her forth into his fiery arms. She would gladly go, for her work was complete.


	97. Margaery II

THE GRACEFUL TRAVELLER

It is many years before Margaery ever gets the chance to see Winterfell for herself. The war against the Others has been fought and won, though she can scarcely believe she lived through the Second Long Night. The scars are in every crease of the Kingdoms, so many lives lost, her own House almost culled to extinction. Those that managed to battle on until the Dawn were taken by a plague only scant years later, their health weakened by years of meagre food and no sunlight. 

Margaery had been furious when Robert refused to name their younger son the Lord of Highgarden. Two of her brothers, Willas and Garlan, had died. Loras had joined the Kingsguard after Renly’s death. Willas’ only son perished without children, and so her beautiful girlhood home was to be given over to a cadet branch, cousins of her Father’s line. That was all well and legal, but it burned her that yet more of their Kingdom was to be given over to foreign Kings. Though Leo Tyrell was a Reachman through and through, an excellent jouster and a good man, his wife began life as a Greyjoy. Now King Theon’s line would have a foothold in the Reach.

Robert would not hear of intervening. There had been three male contenders for the seat of Highgarden at first. But after Leo had duelled one almost to the death, the other had forfeited his claim. The only girl, Willas’ daughter, was married with a household of her own, and settled. She did not wish to uproot her life and take up the mantel of her birthright. 

Margaery couldn’t understand it. Why settle for less, when all the riches and beauty of the greatest House in the Reach were on the table? But the willful girl would not be moved, and so Margaery had pleaded for Robert to give it to Harlen. But no. First the stupid man had allowed himself to be swayed into marrying their heir to the dragons. To finally tie together the Houses of Baratheon and Targaryen in peace. Demolishing the contest between their claims for the Iron Throne. And now Robert refused to grant their younger son Highgarden, after already surrendering Dragonstone, and giving away Storm’s End to his bastard. It rankled to clamp down on her fury, for the sake of her reputation. But privately, Margaery seethed at the injustice of it.

Mayhaps Robert might have considered the scheme some more, had the suggestion not come from her. Robert had long since grown immune to her charms. But it was no matter now; the decrees had been signed, and Leo Tyrell and his Greyjoy wife would take control of her home. 

Honestly, Margaery had jumped at the chance to leave King’s Landing after the whole debalacle. She had to tolerate Randyll Tarly’s smug presence at court indefinitely, now that he had been elevated to the Hand of the King. The Tarlys had stolen the words of her House; Growing Strong indeed. First, his grandson married to Shireen Baratheon, though the boy had died not too many years after. Then his daughter Talla, who had been married to a lowly Tyrell knight, had suddenly become the mother of the Lord of Highgarden. Margaery grew ever more irritated by Lord Tarly’s presence, longing to scratch his face with her nails until he bled. 

Robb Stark’s invitation, to the wedding of his son and heir, could not have come at a more auspicious time.

*

Travel along the King’s Road had become more dangerous since the Second Long Night. There are great sections missing, where the Others had waged their war to return to the Isle of Faces. But this part of the Riverlands is for King Robb to deal with. And there is evidence of work underway. The smallfolk who are digging ditches stop and stare, as their horses thunder past (there is no hope of a wheelhouse getting through, which Margaery is privately grateful for, she has been riding horses since she could walk). 

In Riverrun, they are greeted with great warmth, with rich dishes of delicious meals and lively dancing every night. There is chance to truly enjoy oneself, before the party continues onward alongside Prince Brandon Stark, who has become a King in all but name. He and his family will join them on the last leg of the journey North. 

At the Neck, Margaery is afforded her first glimpse of the girl who made Robb Stark forget his honour. They are brought into Greywater Watch by crannogmen; small, impish people, light on their feet, with overly-large eyes. Margaery knows as well as any other, why. The revelations during the war of the False Stags came thick on the heels of one another, each more incredulous than the next. Hard to believe, even if the proof had been ready at hand.

Lady Meera greets Prince Brandon as an old friend, the younger man ruffling the hair of his nephews affectionately, before drawing her into a bear hug. Rather unrefined, these Northmen. But friendly, welcoming and full of genuine affection. There is much goodness to be found in them, Margaery thinks.

Meera Reed, she does not know what to make of. The girl has pretty eyes, that is certain, but her mouth is too large, her curls a little too wild, her chin too pointed, for her to ever be considered a beauty. She dresses in the same hodge-podge of leathers and furs as the rest of her people, and would not look out of place with a spear in her hand. Margaery wondered what it was that Robb Stark saw in her. 

Was he just a green boy falling into bed with the first girl that showed him any attention? That would explain one bastard, but not two. Not so many years apart. Besides, Margaery well remembers the look on Robb Stark’s face when he thought of Meera. No, she was a first love, not some girl he tumbled for the fun of it.

The Lord of House Reed, Meera’s younger brother Jojen, is a chronically sick man, she explains. He cannot attend upon them, but means no disrespect. He shows his face at some dinners before they all continue on to Winterfell, and Margaery can see his ailment is true. The man is pale and thin, wrapped in many layers of thick furs, and requires a curious chair with wheels instead of legs to move around, athough he is able to hobble about with the aid of a stick.

Robb Stark’s bastards are a mix of their parents, from what Margaery remembers of the young warrior that filled her fantasties for years. (His name had truly been a gift; Robert assumed she meant him, when she panted for Robb whilst lying beneath him). Wulfric Snow is a strapping lad, with brown hair and the bright blue eyes Tullys are known for. Both boys have inherited their mother’s frizzy locks, though the slender Jojen, not to be confused with his uncle of the same name, has his father’s red hair. His eyes are the same warm brown-green as his mother. 

Lady Meera is a gracious host, but Margaery cannot see past her frumpy clothes, and plain, dowdy appearance. No wonder she had never married, nor gained any other bastards from the King in the North. For against the svelte, elegant Rosamund Lannister, how could she ever compare?

There are no more stops at castles after Greywater Watch, though they pass the ruins of Castle Cerwyn on the way. Winterfell rises like a giant over the hills; a huge castle, far larger than the formidable Red Keep. Margaery is in awe of the ancient, gloomy structure. No honour guard rides out to meet them, and she is reminded once again she is no longer in the South. When they reach the central gate leading from the King’s Road, they find the road flanked by two gigantic stone direwolves larger than their horses, mid-prowl, their jaws open in matching snarls full of drooling sharp teeth. 

“Gods be good,” Margaery breathed out. None of her books on Northern people and their customs mentioned _that_.

Robb Stark greeted them in his throne room, flanked by his golden haired wife, trueborn son and daughter, and his goodson. The boy is also Robert’s grandson, through his bastard son Gendry. Cerena Baratheon is just starting to swell with child, not noticable until her proud husband Davos points it out. Robert lost all decorum then, dragging his laughing grandson in for a huge hug, kissing the boy on both cheeks, his own ruddy with happiness. Margaery cannot help but smile at his enthusiasm, though Davos is only her grandson by law. 

Margaery does not fail to notice how Robb Stark greeted Meera warmly, kissing her hand. An act that is reserved only for greeting Queens, in Westeros. Rosamund Stark is a rigid stony tower as she watches, her face carefully blank. Robb Stark greeted his bastard sons as though they were trueborn, wrapping them both into his arms at once. 

“My boys,” he gushed, dropping a kiss to each of their heads, though Wulf was a man grown and of a height with him.

Minisa Stark appeared in the throne room then, to greet her nephews, and the woman that might have been her sister by law, had things turned out differently. Princess Minisa was a widow, just come out of her long period of mourning. 

Margaery was surprised to see her at Winterfell already; she had expected the woman to be ruling as Protector of Last Hearth, until her young son came of age. Of course she would be in attendance of her nephew’s wedding, but as she lived close by, there was no need for her to arrive as early as the guests that travelled furthest. It is weeks before the wedding will take place. It is the custom, even in the North, for the closest Houses to arrive last, so that the combined guests do not eat the host House’s larders empty in anticipation of the grand event.

The celebration is to be an extra extravegant one, since they plan to announce Cerena’s pregnancy to the North the following day. No doubt the Northmen will enjoy the excuse to drink themselves into early graves. Margaery does not think it will be the long before the next wedding in the North; not judging by the heated looks that pass between Minisa Umber and Wulf Snow.

The weeks leading up the wedding are full of laughter and lightness, the kind Margaery might not have experienced since Highgarden. Her boys enjoy sparring with the Starks, true and baseborn, and are thrilled to spend time with Davos. He is their nephew in blood, but they act more like cousins, due to their ages.

There were many feasts, and dances, where Margaery outshined most in her elegant dresses. She was shocked when Meera Reed appeared at the grandest feast, to celebrate the arrival of all the guests. She had seen Meera dance daintily, in her plain blue, olive green or grey dresses. But at this feast, she wore an elaborate mint green dress of lace, arranged to look like a delicate fisherman’s net. It was covered in tiny embroidered lilies and lily-pads. Her hair was elegantly coifed, her smile radiant as she danced set after set in Robb Stark’s arms. Margaery wondered idly if Robb had ever fallen out of love with Meera, as she danced her own sets with a parade of different Northmen.

Three days before the wedding, Margaery was introduced to the most peculiar Northern custom yet. Robb Stark sat on his throne and allowed any man, great or small, to petition him for gifts. This odd tradition only happened before a King of Winter’s son was married, and since Robb only had the one trueborn, men from far and wide had come to ask favours of him. He was expected to grant the overwhelming majority of them. The only thing they are barred from asking for is money, or the hand of any of his other children. The ritual lasts from the hours of dawn until dusk, each three days before the wedding; the evening of the third being the night the wedding takes place. 

Smallfolk petitioner make up most of the gifts on the first day, which does not really interest Margaery. The truly shocking things take place on the third day, when the largest gifts are traditionally asked for. Not long before the sun goes down, after hours of listening attentively, poor King Robb was exhausted. Naturally, this was when Minisa Umber stepped forward.

Robb sat up, suddenly paying actual attention, rather than simply agreeing to everything at this point, just to get it over with.

Princess Minisa curtseyed to her brother and King. 

“Get on with it, Mini,” Robb pleaded, resulting in a smattering of titters from the intrigued lords crammed into the hall.

“My King, on this day, the day of your only trueborn son’s wedding, I would ask that you legitimise the baseborn man that I love. So that we may be married, and live out the rest of our days in love and happiness.”

Robb’s eyebrows flew up in shock. 

“And where is this man?” he asked, craning his neck to look.

It was no shock to Margaery at all, when Wulfric Snow stepped forward. The same could not be said for King Robb.

“I’m here, Father.” The young man said, nervous and flushed.

There was a collective intake of breath in the throne room as Robb gaped in disbelief. Asking a King to legitimise his own bastard was by far the biggest, most risky gift anyone had asked for. Most people just wanted land or a boat or some goats. 

“This is an outrage!” Rosamund eventually howled, charging forward. “I have stood silently by all these years, safe in the knowledge of what you promised me. That my son would be the Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. Mine! Not your legitimised bastard!”

Wulf shifted uneasily, clearly mortified by all the attention, while Princess Minisa remained utterly unmoved by the chaos erupting around her. The court began to talk in a loud rabble.

“Apologies, my queen, for the confusion,” Minisa called over the crowd, “You mistake me, you mistake my intention!” 

The Northern Princess yelled to be heard over the ever-growing din.

“Enough!” Robb demanded, taking a page from his namesake’s book to bellow in fury. “The next person to speak, who is not a petitioner, will spend the duration of the wedding in the stocks.”

There was silence after that.

“Princess Minisa of Houses Stark and Umber, explain yourself.” Robb ordered imperiously, his eyes flashing dangerously. Yes, Robb Stark had the wolf-blood in him.

“I do not ask you to legitimise him as a Stark, your grace.” She said carefully, sending Rosamund a challenging look, “But as a Reed. So that he might inherit the lands of his mother.”

Rosamund swallowed audibly, humilited by her rash reaction. Margaery winced in sympathy. She has had her doubts about Gendry, and his place in Robert’s affections. She understands entirely the urge to protect ones sons from other claimants to their birthright.

“Oh,” said Robb, blinking owlishly for a moment, “Well, that’s- well. Really Mini? You’re his aunt!”

“Cerena and Davos are cousins,” Minisa reminded him flatly, “It’s no different.”

“Ugh,” groaned Robb, “Edric Stark is mocking me from the crypts.”

“What?” said Minisa, but Brandon Stark began to laugh, deep and unhindered, clearly in on the private jape.

“This is just like that story you told us! Of Edric and Serena-” Brandon wheezed, until Robb cut across him with a curt;

“Aye, all right Bran! That’s enough out of you, unless you want to spend your night in the stocks.”

But Brandon was too busy laughing to care about his brother’s idle threats.

“Gods be good, I don’t want to be in the room when Theon Greyjoy hears about this, are we clear?” Robb glared at Minisa.

“Your grace?” She said quitely, clearly as lost by the turn in the conversation as Margaery was. Who in the Seven Hells was Edric Stark?

“Yes, yes all right, marry my son, Wulfric Reed.” Robb sighed, at which point Minisa squeaked girlishly, and scurried up to the throne, throwing her arms about her still seated brother, who patted her back as she smothered him.

The petitions followed in a brazen fashion after that.

Meera Reed was next, in a plain blue dress, somehow looking regal in the simple design. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, straight-backed and proud.

“Meera!” Robb breathed, before remembering himself. “Lady Meera of House Reed and Clan Marsh, what would you ask of me?”

“My King, on this day, the day of your only trueborn son’s wedding, I would ask that you legitimise our younger son, Jojen. As a Reed.” She clarified, raising an eyebrow in Rosamund’s direction, while other woman glared at her.

“So that he might inherit the lands of my forebears, in the case that Wulf and Minisa have no heirs.” Meera continued, with a soft smile at the mention of her son and his new betrothed.

“Done,” said Robb quickly, flashing his (former?) mistress a grin. Probably believing that the trickiest requests were done.

“Who’s next?” He called out, “It’s almost sundown!”

“I am, your grace.” said Brandon Stark, still struggling to regain his breath after his laughing fit.

Robb quirked an eyebrow at his younger brother. “Really? And what can I offer the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands on this day?”

“We must observe ritual, Robb,” Brandon chided playfully, but in a firm tone. 

With a roll of his eyes, Robb rephrased his question: “Prince Brandon of Houses Stark and Tully, what would you ask of me?”

“My King, on this day, the day of your only trueborn son’s wedding, I would ask that you allow the Riverlands to secede from the Kingdom of the North. Without a drop of blood spilt. So that we may rule ourselves, according to our own laws and customs.”

Margaery felt her heart began to thump erratically, digging her fingers into her palms. Wars had been started with less words. She wondered hysterically if she was about to witness a kinslaying, as Robb’s face clouded over with thunder.

Brandon Stark’s jaw gave twitch of nervous anticipation when King Robb only stared at him.

“Am I hearing right?” Robb said carefully, “Are you asking me, little brother, on the day of my son’s wedding, to let you take a chunk of my Kingdom? To make you a King?”

Brandon swallowed nervously, but said nothing more. The court waited in dead silence, though Margaery saw men and guards alike place their hands on the pommels of their swords. Achingly slowly, with the creaking of a man seated for many hours, Robb Stark rose to his full height, descending painstakingly from the dias. His thick furs settled around him as he moved, dragging on the stone floor as he stepped close to his brother. The sharp spires of his crown glintered menacingly as he moved.

“The land I granted you, to rule over in my name? The fertile Riverlands; you want me to relinquish all claim to it?” Robb demanded through gritted teeth.

“Aye, your grace.” Brandon confirmed quietly, “That is what I am asking for.”

“Gods be good, Bran,” whispered Robb, before a smile split his serious countenance, “What took you so long?”

He held out his right hand in clear invitation to seal the agreement in the ancient fashion, the old way. Brandon let out his held breath in a whoosh of air, sagging in relief as Robb laughed.

“Arse,” said Brandon, clasping his brother’s arm strongly, “If I wake up with a head of grey hair…”

Robb immediately ruffled Brandon’s hair in delight, garnering a slapped wrist in response. Then the two Kings began to tussle as though they were still boys in the yard.

For years to come, people would talk of the largest gift ever asked from a King of Winter, a kingdom gladly relinquished. There would even be a song about the Good Wolf King, and his brothers the King of the Rivers, the King of the Rock, and the King of the Isles. In time, people would come to forget the King of the Isles wasn’t his brother by blood, and there was some confusion when the maesters tried to attribute the song to the correct Age. But all that was to come.

On the day it happened, Margaery watched the proceedings in disbelief, once again very glad she had not married into the North. An exceedingly bizarre place, that she would never come to understand, not even if she spent the rest of her lifetime there.

*

Margaery could not help staring in awe at the intricate, beautiful ice sculptures that filled the Winterfell godswood. They glimmered in the moonlight on the night of young Ned Stark’s wedding to Alys Umber, Minisa Umber’s sister by law. They had been fashioned from snow and magic, weilded by Tyr Stark, the most famous yet enigmatic man in the Seven Kingdoms. 

The entire realm knew the story of how he had emerged from years of subjugation as the Night King, when Jyana Reed had drawn the dragonglass shard out from his heart. He had almost killed her for her trouble. But he had been too weakened by the shock to his system to succeed in strangling her to death. 

It had been Jon Targaryen, then Jon Snow, who had first befriended the exhausted ancestor of House Stark. Using his halting, rudimentary grasp of the Old Tongue to explain that they were kin. Defeated and confused, the poor man had passed out after accepting that his life was not in danger. Tyr, son of Tybek, had been horrified to learn upon waking just how many years had gone by. That his family, clansmen, everyone he had ever known and loved, had perished thousands of years ago. In desperate misery, he had tried to take his own life, but had been stopped before the sword could penetrate his heart.

Jon had begged him to live, to meet the other Starks, to see the castle that his beloved grandson Bran had built. Wary, but without many other options, Tyr Stark had followed his hundreds of greats-grandson North. He had made the Stark’s maester Luwin something of a celebrity, as it was fashionable to have his account of Tyr’s biographical story on display in your home, where guests could see it. Tyr’s story of crossing the Arm of Dorne as a boy with his father (proving its existance definitively for the first time), was listened to eagerly, by men who travelled the length of Westeros for the chance to hear it first hand. Oberyn Martell taught himself the Old Tongue so that he could ask questions directly, and not rely on Tormund Giantsbane’s translations.

Tyr’s abilities with snow and ice were the stuff of song and fantastical legend. He had spent too long with a shard of dragonglass in his body to lose all his abilities after it was removed. Though he had begun to age naturally after it was taken out, maesters of the Citadel theorised that a thin fragment may had broken off and remained within him. Whatever the cause, Tyr could bend and form snow to his will, though he no longer had the ability to make it from the water vapours of fog and mist. 

Needing to feel useful, the quiet, melancholy Tyr used manual labour to distract himself from his troubles. He spent his early days at Winterfell forging weapons and armour from the unique material all day long. His swords were composed of ice crystals, but not regular ice; the sharp, deadly kind the Others had been infamous for wielding. They did not shatter a steel sword on impact, as they once had when the Others used them, but they were still razor-thin, lightweight and did not lose their edge with time. Unfortunately, only those with Stark blood could touch them for more than a second, and not get frostbite. A man stabbed with an ‘Icesteel’ blade would freeze to death before the wound killed him, if the sword was not removed immediately. 

Tyr could not conjure ice out of thin air, and in the summer it was in short supply. Thankfully, Robb Stark had a lot of building supplies lying about, which Tyr borrowed, to drag great hunks of icy rubble from the broken Wall, down to where they were needed. He employed the help of giants. He had forged a deep friendship with the few left, since he spoke their language and they were almost as old as he was.

With a lot of trauma to take out by hammering them into shape with his bare hands, Tyr forged innumerable swords, daggers, arrowheads and other similar weaponry. Robb Stark had to build another armoury in Winterfell just to house it all. There were so many swords that all men with Stark blood had at least one, including the Karstarks and Targaryens, and most of the women too. Princess Arya was never seen without her blade.

Sansa Stark’s crown was made from Icesteel, as was Robb Stark’s glittering, intricate throne. Most called the material by its unofficial name, ‘Stark steel’. It became the custom for a man of Stark blood, who was also the Lord of a seat, to wield a Greatsword of Icesteel. A tradition that began with Robb Stark. He now wielded Icefang, a giantic Icesteel blade as tall as he was. The Valyrian Steel Ice that had been his ancestral sword, hung proud and loyal in his father’s hand, from Ned’s statue in the crypts.

Icesteel was also an excellent way to prove the blood of a child if legitimacy was ever called into question. Or if a bastard child claimed to have a Stark parent, touching a single finger to an Icesteel blade and being able to withstand its freezing properties would be undeniable proof.

Which is how Jeor Mormont, Dacey Mormont’s only child, revealed he was Robb’s hidden bastard. Picking up his father’s sword to prove it. The bold statement was only necessary, because he wished to marry his cousin Celia Stark. The Riverlords would not accept it, as a man with no known father. A contingent of them had travelled to Winterfell years ago, to complain to their King. Their leige lord would not comply with their demands to break off the betrothal. Brandon Stark had been happy to let his daughter marry for love, when the man in question was a brave warrior.

Before Robb Stark could speak, (though evidently he had planned to), Jeor grasped his father’s throne with one hand, and unsheathed Icefang with the other, proclaiming “Here sits my father, my lords.”

The story was a favourite one for men deep in their cups to recount. Robb Stark would sigh heavily, whenever he caught sight of anyone grab hold of a table or bench or pillar with one hand, and brandish a sword with the other.

The Starks were growing to have an increasingly complex family tree, Margaery noted with envy. Even young Ned Stark’s bride had Stark blood; her mother was Alys Karstark, now the Lady Umber. She was the one who was to hold the seat of Last Hearth as Protector to her dead husband’s grandson by Ned Umber, who had been Minisa Umber’s first husband. 

Unlike Margaery’s family, there were an abunance of Starks left in the world, and they were breeding at an exponential rate. Very few Northmen overall had died in the Second Long Night, in comparison to rest of the Seven Kingdoms. They were more prepared for the terrible conditions, more innured to it.

Robb Stark’s obsession with building, and restoring ruins, had resulted in more places to store food, and hide out during the worst storms. Even the Wintertown had been fortified with a Wall, providing shelter from the icy winds. He had extended his influence all the way to Skagos, that region of savages in the Bay of Seals. Robert and Margaery listened to the young wolf King proudly speak of building a keep, on the formerly abandoned island of Skane, in faint disbelief. 

“It’s the first structure of this size that I designed entirely by myself,” the King in the North gushed, like a boy talking about his first sword.

“Heavily influenced by my ancestors, of course.” he continued, “Edric Stark was an unsung hero. I’m thinking of having a song commissioned about him. Anyway, Rickon’s keep was finished years ago, but he keeps tinkering with it, to really make it his own I suppose.” 

Margaery nodded in agreement. 

“That’s what I wanted to call it; Rickon’s Keep, but he wouldn’t have it. Kept moaning that his descendants would end up being known as the Rickstarks, which admittedly, sounds rather ridiculous.”

“What did he settle on instead, Robb?” Margaery asked, clamping down on the urge to demand more information, about how on planetos Robb Stark had pursuaded the unwashed barbarians on Skagos, to allow him to meddle with their closest island.

Robb had insisted they drop the formalities of “your grace”, as with all the royalty present at Winterfell, it would get confusing very quickly.

“The Frost Keep.” Robb answered, “I admit it has a nice ring to it. And they get some bitterly cold nights out there, so close to the Shivering Sea!”

Rickon Stark was a wild young man, in keeping with his reported friendship with the wild Skagg clans, who had recently declared him their King. He and his wife were explorers, who had ridden across Westeros and spent a long time in the Stepstones. To their great surprise, they had encountered Kevan Lannister there. He had been in exile, ever since it was clear the Lannisters had lost the war. The two had captured him and ransomed him to Tyrion Lannister, for a nice bag of gold. 

Though still young, Rickon had a full beard as shaggy as his aptly named direwolf, which followed him everywhere. Whilst Margaery had been invited to pet Summer and Grey Wind, the direwolves of the elder Stark men, she had been expressly warned not to approach Rickon’s black beast. There was no danger of that however, as the huge, snarling beast gave off an air of ill-contained savagery, and was very ill-tempered. The rude wolf frequently jumped atop tables, ate ravens and frightened the stabled horses. Robb Stark wasn’t afraid of grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and dragging him about, commanding him out of a room. Margaery saw no one else, save for Rickon and his wife Lyanna, touch the monstrous creature.

Robb Stark wasn’t intimidated by anything, especially not direwolves. A whole litter off them followed him everywhere. They were Grey Wind’s pups, who terrorised the wildlife in the wolfswood, and lolled about the throne room playfully whenever Robb held court. It was amusing to see various guests pick their way around them as they attempted to move through the room.

“Don’t they have a mother?” Margaery asked of the many wolves, soon after she had arrived. 

They were pups no longer, each one the size of a small pony, but they were all dwarfed by their father, the formidable grey wolf. He was so large that the door to the throne room had to be taken out, and stonework demolished, so that he could fit through the wider replacement.

“They’re Nymeria’s pups mostly. My sister’s wolf. Some of them are half-breeds, with ordinary wolves. What you see is only half of the amount there were, back when Arya lived here. Now she’s at Storm’s End, she thankfully took the rest with her.” Robb explained with a laugh.

The patient Grey Wind didn’t seem to mind his brother Shaggy’s antics. The two wolves, along with Bran’s placid Summer, were too big to fit in the throne room together, so Robb banished them all to the godswood, where they tumbled over one another and generally made a nuisance of themselves whilst the wedding preparations were underway.

After the wedding, Winterfell was inundated by yet more furry companions, when King Theon and Queen Sansa arrived unexpectedly. They had declined the invitation to Ned’s wedding. Not wanting to leave their son and daughter by law, in anticipation of the birth of their first grandchild. Bethany Greyjoy was delivered of a girl, in time for the ruling royals of the Iron Islands to take their swiftest ship to Sea Dragon Point. They arrived at Winterfell in time to catch the end of the festivities.

Their supply of fish, shellfish and barrels of ale meant the celebrations could continue far longer than expected. King Theon and Queen Sansa were also accompanied by their own direwolves; both female. Theon Greyjoy’s wolf was the largest of all, towering over even Jon Targaryen’s Ghost. 

“I didn’t realise they had more growing left to do,” Margaery muttered in awe, rather intimidated by the thought. If they all grew to be as large as Theon’s Storm, and as obedient as Grey Wind, Robb Stark would have himself an army of wolves.

“Storm is Grey Wind, Lady and all the Stark sibling’s wolves mother,” Theon explained, going into detail about how he, Robb and Jon had found them newly born, their mother severely wounded.

“These ones-” he said, referring to the troop of smaller wolves they had brought from the Islands, thankfully only five in total, “-are Lady’s pups, conceived when Jon came to visit two years ago. Ghost was incorrigible. All over his sister!”

King Theon had a pleasant laugh. Were he not an Ironborn, Margaery might have thought him handsome. Sansa Stark joined their conversation wearing an armoured corset, forged from Icesteel. 

“How breathtakingly lovely!” Margaery complimented her, pulling on her riding gloves so that she could run her hand over the curiously smooth material.

They were about to go for an afternoon ride and camp out beneath the stars in the wolfswood, and were shortly joined by Prince Jon Targaryen and his wife, the beautiful Allyria. Margaery had thus far avoided the Targaryens, whom she was still sore with over the loss of Dragonstone. The island should have been the seat of the heir to the Iron Throne. But Jon Targaryen had earned it back, as a reward for saving her husband’s life in battle. Robert had offered to legitismise him for this deed, but Jon had pleaded with the King to wait until after the war to dole out any rewards. Laughing that the honourable Ned Stark’s son would ask such a thing, Robert agreed.

Of course, he had been furious to discover Jon was in fact a trueborn Targaryen and not the son of his dearest friend, when the young man had come to King’s Landing to accept his reward. Jon had brought proof, which had been squirreled away by Howland Reed after finding him as a baby with Ned Stark, newly born at the Tower of Joy. Rhaegar Targaryen’s harp, along with letters exchanged between Rhaegar and Lyanna, mentioning the wedding. And a document penned in Ned Stark’s hand, outlining all that had transpired that day, where he professed his undying loyalty to Robert despite his promise to Lyanna on her deathbed, to protect her son, Aemon. 

Knowing Robert’s reaction to Aegon and Rhaenys’ death, Ned claimed the boy as his own to prevent Robert from murdering him. He lied to all, including his wife, as he suspected Robert would kill them both if he ever found out, and at least Catelyn and his children would be spared if they had known nothing of the truth. Catelyn Stark had been present at court as her husband’s words were read aloud, and had publically wept to learn why her husband had decieved her.

If anyone had looked closely at the missive, they would have noted that the ink in the corner where the date was penned was not exactly the same as the rest of the document. But there was too much uproar over its other contents, once it had been agreed that Ned Stark had definitely penned it for anyone to bother.

Robert had been shocked and upset by Ned’s fear of him, and had sat in silence from then on, as Jon petitioned to have his ancestral lands back. Aegon the Conqueror had taken Dragonstone when it was a bare, useless rock, before he ever became a King of Westeros. None had conquered it directly since. With only young Shireen as a contender, Jon stated his claim was stronger. As he was forefitting his claim to the Iron Throne, Jon demanded to retain the title of Prince, which was denied to him all his life, growing up as a bastard. Margaery was not surprised to observe Prince Jon purposefully interact with Catelyn Stark. So that the woman who had always spurned him, was forced to call him by his new title.

Now, Margaery resolved to let go of her own bitterness, lest it poison her as it had Lady Catelyn. She wanted to be more like the loving Starks, who got along famously well, to the extent that Robb gave up a piece of his Kingdom to his brother, just because he asked for it. She began by cheerfully greeting the Targaryens, and complimenting Princess Allyria on her gorgeous purple riding cloak, which matched her stunning eyes.

Prince Jon’s second wife had the famous Targaryen eyes. Passed down from ancestors of their blood, through her Dayne roots. Both of her children had inherited them. But Aemon Targaryen had startlingly red eyes, like his own mother. Jon’s mysterious first wife, the Red Witch from Asshai. The boy had been named in honour of his grandmother's wishes, the name Lyanna Stark had chosen for her son. There were whispers that Aemon was a shadowbinder like his mother, who had taught him all her dark arts before she died. But those were surely just vicious rumours. Though the boy could be sullen like his father, Margaery had seen him japing with his young siblings, Lyanna and Benjen.

As they prepared themselves for the ride out, Margaery pondered the uncommon way the Starks accepted all offshoots of their house; dragons, bastards, wild men and former enemies with ice powers alike. It was a template, she decided, for a better way of life. When they returned to King’s Landing, she would invite Leo Tyrell and his Greyjoy Princess to court. They were, after all, some of the few family members she had left. There was no reason they couldn’t be friends.


	98. Ramsay XIII

THE SLY TRAVELLER

“Another one of your urchins?” Ramsay asked wryly, lifting the tatty boy in question into the air by the scruff of his neck. The boy, no more than four or five, giggled, hands dancing about his mouth, where the evidence of his pilfering was staining his lips.

“Torrhen!” Pod called with a large smile, opening his arms to accept the wriggling child into them. “There you are. Maester Niccos was worried, you little imp!”

Torrhen squirmed to throw his arms about Pod’s neck, delighted with the attention.

Ramsay rolled his eyes, stomping away from the table where the fruit bowl had lately been desecrated by small, sticky fingers. He threw himself into a large chair beside the roaring fire with a huff. Since he and Podrick had moved into the keep they had been gifted by King Robb, they had been inundated by the locals; merchants, fishermen and their get, all wanting jobs, trading deals and favouritism. That had mostly died down, once all the household serving positions had been filled. For a short time, all was quiet and orderly.

But as with all bustling, growing towns, Sea Dragon Point was filled with motherless street rats, stealing and causing trouble. Ramsay had been all for locking them in his new dungeon, or else forcing them into labour. But Pod had taken pity on the underprivileged children, and had decided to round them all up, inviting them to the keep for daily lessons and a free meal.

He’d even sent to the Citadel for a maester of their own, which cost a fair amount of dragons annually, that they really couldn’t afford to spare. Not until the revenues from their trading deals started making a decent profit. Ramsay had unsuccessfully tried to argue that the homeless and unemployed were a natural part of life in a city. Pod had disagreed; he had actually lived in King’s Landing at one point, and seen how terrible the conditions were, first hand. He refused to allow it in ‘their’ town.

Pod had taken it into his head that the children needed to learn their letters, history, and the theory of trade and warfare. He was also of the opinion the children would work harder if they were fed regularly, and already somewhat skilled by the time they reached seafaring age, therefore more useful to society. Pod had even asked their master at arms to train the older ones in basic swordplay. Pod had persuaded Ramsay to allow it, with deep kisses and long fucks; and in the end Ramsay had caved, because a happy Podrick meant a peaceful life.

“Robb Stark will have us hung for treason, thinking we’re growing an army,” Ramsay had complained.

To which Pod had cheerfully kissed his cheek, and suggested they invite the King in the North to come and see the progress for himself. Robb had naturally been charmed and delighted. He had insisted a whole host of Northmen attend upon them, to see the results for themselves. Forcing Ramsay to spend even more money on a grand feast to host them all. King Robb had trotted out the most successful children; the seamstress who had opened a little shop, the deckhand praised by his captain, and Edd, the boy showing the most skill with a sword. Then he had strongly suggested other lords implemented similar schemes.

Which was how the Redbolts were garnering a reputation for philanthropy and compassion, much to the chagrin of all the lords that had hoped to gain control of the North’s new port for themselves. And how half of the lowborn urchins in the North had suddenly found themselves at lessons with a maester, before attending to their usual work.

Robb had used it as an excuse to build yet another structure, this time a ‘teaching hall’ in Winter Town. Employing a separate maester to run it, and dedicate himself to the children there. The maesters were not pleased at having to educate ruffians. The first man at Winter Town had been sent back to the Citadel in disgrace, after Robb had discovered he had been shirking his duties and only reinforcing the children’s notions of ‘their place’. Robb had publicly whipped the man in Winter Town’s square, for beating a child bloody. The other maesters suddenly ceased their grumbling and become very enamoured with the new endeavour after that.

Now Ramsay’s keep, aptly named ‘the Redbolt’, was filled with tiny, irritating beasts at almost all hours of day. And Ramsay was forced to pretend he was keen on the idea, lest he look like a miser. Domeric thought the entire tale was hilarious. He kept ‘coming to visit’ ostensibly to spend time with his brother, but really so he could laugh about Ramsay’s new generous, kind reputation directly to his face.

Thankfully, he was not alone in his lack of enthusiasm. His mother thought the scheme was folly also, and would lead to smallfolk with ideas above their station. Coming from the smallfolk herself, Ramsay valued her opinion in the matter, and it amused him to see how she took his side in all things. Still, she had been careful not to disparage Pod himself when casting dire warnings about the scheme.

Ramsay had made it clear when he invited Tessa to live with them, that Pod was an eternal feature of the household. And that if Pod should feel uncomfortable with her, or she tried to come between them, or if some mysterious accident should befall Pod, then she would be out on her ear, immediately.

But she wasn’t stupid, his mother, for all that she was a lowborn wretch. Tessa knew better than to jeopardize her chance of living out her remaining days in a keep, with servants to tend to her every whim, though she had balked at the idea of it at first.

“What m’I to do, m’lord?” she asked pitifully, “Don’t know nothing ‘bout running a keep. Can only work a mill, clean and cook and sew. That’s all I can do.”

She’d almost been in tears, before Ramsay assured her that the lord’s mother need not do anything, but sit by the fire and eat well. And sew clothing for him, if she wished. That had mollified her, and she set about sewing him cloaks and tunics, the quality improving with each new item. Especially as, after he had discovered her, Pod had the young seamstress girl come and sit with Tessa regularly. Sharing her considerable skill, and feminine conversation.

His mother had been very uncomfortable with the idea of Ramsay laying with a man. But Podrick was an easy man to abide, even if she was still leery of the freedom with which they expressed affection in public. Since she was lucky he hadn’t killed her for tossing him aside like refuse, Ramsay wasn’t willing to listen to her opinion on his choice of bedpartners.

The only reason his mother still breathed, was that when Ramsay had decided to sate his curiosity, and visit the mill she owned, she had known him almost immediately. Tessa had asked after his health and upbringing, and said she was happy his father had done right by him. Treating him as befitting his station, as the son of a lord. She had admitted his father had threatened to kill her himself, if she ever sought Ramsay out at the Dreadfort. It was one thing to claim a motherless bastard. But apparently quite another, for Roose to allow the plain, dowdy woman he raped to parade about, asking after her son and revealing the truth.

Ramsay was surprised by his sudden need to know her. She had obviously thought on him, over the years. And it was true that he had enjoyed a better life at the Dreadfort with Dom, than he would have at the dreary, sad little mill Tessa called home. Robb Stark had just gifted him a keep of his own. So Ramsay decided to put his new power to good use, and insisted that she should come and live with him.

He’d quickly broken her of the habit of calling him by anything but his name, and in turn he called her ‘mother’. They usually ate their noonday meal together, just the two of them, where they would exchange stories. She enjoyed to run her hand gently through his hair, and often wore dresses in deep pink, reflecting the sigil Ramsay had chosen for his personal coat of arms. They rapidly settled into a routine of living, as though they had never been parted.

She did not displease or embarass him, and kept her opinions about Podrick to herself. Though her dresses and manners might never be as fine as Wylla’s, they certainly befitted the lady of a small keep. Tessa agreed with every public announcement he made, and disapproved of every lord that they were forced to host, believing them all to be greedy, rude and foolish. Opinions which Ramsay generally shared. It amused him greatly to see how uncomfortable it made his neighbouring lords, to be polite and gracious to an obviously lowborn woman. Mother had taken his name as ‘Mistress Redbolt’, having no House of her own, and neatly slipped into the family. As though she had always been there.

It had been particularly thrilling when Father had come to visit, and had turned pale with suppressed rage at finding her there. Unfortunately, King Robb had also been visiting, to oversee the progress of the port. So Father was forced to bite his tongue, and curse Ramsay only in the recesses of his mind. Merik was thrilled at the idea of having another grandmother, since Beth and Rose had two of their own and now he could match. For his and Ramsay’s sake, Pod tolerated Tessa, though she was generally cool toward him, and resisted his attempts to befriend her. Ramsay suspected that disharmony would ease with time.

Until then, he enjoyed basking in his favourite armchair by the fire, while Mother knitted socks and tutted over the dirty little children climbing about the keep as though they owned it. The children were irritating, as was the unwarranted praise Ramsay garnered from pretending to care about their fates. Whenever visiting lords came by, he was expected to smile and gush about their achievements.

But it made Pod happy, to provide for them. And it certainly put paid to the assertions that nothing good would come of the Redbolt's instalment at the keep. The chatter and laughter of so many children filling their halls wasn’t overly terrible. Better than the oppressive quiet at the Dreadfort, in any case. Ramsay could grow used it, here on the coast where the waves constantly lapped at the small beach, a soothing background noise, and there were always new traders hawking interesting wares in the markets.  
  
Merik was thrilled to feed sea birds every day, and canter about the coastline on his grey charger. Pod was occupied with a litter of children Ramsay couldn’t otherwise provide for him, now that Merik was too big to coddle. And his mother, so eager to please, was always willing to listen to anything that entered Ramsay's mind. All catered to by servants of his own, in his smart new keep at the fashionable Sea Dragon Harbour. Far enough away that Father no longer bothered him, but close enough for Dom to visit fairly frequently. Soon, the port would make Ramsay rich, and he would live out the remainder of his days in the North, feeding Pod honeycakes from his fingers, as they both grew fat from the abundance. Yes, a fitting end indeed, for a descendant of the Red Kings.


	99. Robb VII

THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER

It had been many long years since Meera last came to Winterfell. She knew her presence there would cause a rift between him and Rosa, and she truly didn’t want that, so she kept to the Neck and her own people. Meera had accepted that Robb's heart was shared between them, in a way Robb never could have, if she had married another man herself. That made him selfish and he knew it. But it was only the truth. Robb had never tried to dissuade her from a relationship of her own, but Meera had laughed him off whenever he mentioned it.

“There’s none I love save you,” she would whisper, stoking his beard or kissing his brow. “Why chain myself to some man who will come to resent me for not loving him as I love you?”

The pride that would swell in his chest at those words, of her absolute certainty of their truthfulness, would stop him from pressing the issue. But he should have. She should have married, had more children. She could have been happy with another, instead of alone in her swamp for so many years.

Robb had treated her ill, and he knew it. He didn’t have to marry Rosa after the war; could have pressed his claim for the Westerlands through right of conquest. But Robert Baratheon would only have turned on him, and deployed his troops to conquer it right back. To prevent more bloodshed, he’d taken Rosa to wife instead, claiming a third of the land and the revenues from its goldmines through her Lannister blood. He had needed to feed his people during the Long Night, to rebuild after the war against the False Stags, so he justified the mercenary grab for wealth. And perhaps he simply hadn’t wanted Meera to refuse him again, even as a King. There are only so many times a man can be told “no” before his pride is rankled.

He’d come to regret the decision not to ask her one last time, many times over the years. When it became evident that even his genuine love for Rosa wasn’t enough to push Meera from his heart. He tried to defend his choice, by reminding himself Meera could have protested when he wrote to her from King’s Landing. She could have travelled to wed him in the Sept of Baelor. But could she truly? With a newborn babe to care for? And would a Reed, fiercely devoted to the old gods, ever marry before the Seven? He hadn't given her a chance and it had been his own fault that he suffered for it. Sometimes the separation between them became so unbearable that he rode to the Neck, to stay with her for months at a time. Rosa would spend hours praying in the Sept whenever he was gone, he learned. She could never forgive him for his inability to remain faithful to his wedding vows.

But now Meera was leaving the Neck one last time for him. Not to ride South, but to Winterfell, into his arms at last. It had been a year since Rosa had finally succumbed to a long-term illness. Her last months had been painful and awful, and Robb had wanted nothing more than to run to the Neck afterward. But he knew how it would look, and he is a good enough King to understand the importance of public appearance. He dutifully remained put, for six moons. Then he returned to Greywater Watch.

Wordlessly she had come to him from the mist, as though they were youths still, snatching kisses on private crannogs and not wrinkled, aged warriors, Robb’s hair holding too much silver for his liking. Meera was still beautiful, the lines on her face making her only more dignified. Robb had kissed her deeply, and whispered;

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

Meera had laughed, and told him to go home. Bitterly disappointed, Robb had almost wept, before she promised to join him in another six moons.

One of her most memorable excursions to Winterfell had no doubt been his son Ned’s wedding, when she asked him to legitimise Jojen. As a result of that, Jojen was now the Lord of Moat Cailin. Robb was proud his boy had inherited his first restored ruined keep. It had sat largely empty after Jon had taken Dragonstone, save for a steward and some servants.

And of course, there was Meera’s most infamous visit. The one where she’d slapped him in front of almost his entire court, upon learning the truth of Jeor’s birth. His Mormont son's conception was a single moment of desperate connection during the war, when Robb had learned of his own father’s death. It hadn’t soothed her heartache, even though Robb could tell it pleased Meera, that it hadn’t been a long affair.

Still, she had been pregnant when he betrayed her, and she still hadn’t forgiven him for it. Robb hardly expected her to. Meera had a difficult second pregnancy. She had even sent a raven to the camp, via the steward of Moat Cailin, as Greywater Watch had no ravens, but Jon had taken some there. Meera wrote of her fears she might not survive the birth. And in such circumstance, she wanted their boys to remain in the Neck. In the care of her parents and brother, and not fostered with strangers.

Robb had been terrified from that moment on that her dire prediction would come true. And that he would fall in battle, leaving their boys orphans. The loss of his father had tipped him into despair- and Dacey Mormont’s arms. It was only the one night, but one night was enough. Jeor might take after his mother, but he had Robb’s eyes and curls, though his were brown not red. How could he tell Meera he'd lain with another, while she struggled through pregnancy and feared for her life?

But moons became years, with Robb always putting it off with one excuse or another. Until Jeor himself had announced it to the world at large. The look on Meera's face when he didn't deny the charge was something Robb would never forget. He'd had to chase her when she stormed from the room. Then carry her to his solar over his shoulder whilst she fought him like a shadowcat, in order to explain the circumstances in private. Robb still bore a scar on his neck where Meera's nails had shredded the skin.

But here she was again. Standing tall and beautiful, flanked by their incredulous sons, who had been told nothing until now. Robb had wanted to inform them himself.

They didn’t wait; Robb had assembled his lords for a ‘grand feast’ and demanded Bran attend, as his brother rarely left the Riverlands since he became a King. To his great surprise, Bran had brought Mother, who hadn’t left the Riverlands at all. Not after moving there to be an advisor to her young son, when he became the Lord Paramount of her homeland. Robb had barely spoken to his mother in all those years since she had left. The rift between them had only deepened with time, after he had another child with Meera, and later married Rosa without her leave.

Yet it was a joy to see her again, frail as she was now, her hair entirely white. She stroked his face and called him her boy, despite Robb being older now than Father was when he died. Perhaps now, so many years gone, the tear between them could be mended.

Robb hadn’t told any of his court the reason why they must assemble in the godswood. Surely some had guessed, since it was night, but no one enquired as to who the participants would be. There was a frisson of surprise when Robb himself stood before the heart tree and Bran asked who came before the old gods.

“Meera of House Reed, a woman grown and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the old gods,” Wulf replied, proudly holding his mother’s arm.

“Who comes to claim her?” asked Bran.

“Robb of House Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?” said Robb, in his most lofty King voice.

“Wulfric Reed, who is her son.”

“Lady Meera, do you take this man?” said Bran, grinning broadly.

“I take this man,” Meera said, her eyes glittering in the torchlight, resplendent in her moss-green dress.

“King Robb, do you take this woman?”

“I take this woman,” said Robb, before Bran had finished speaking, to muffled giggles from the crowd.

He unclasped his new cloak, an extravagant silvery number covered in direwolves. Seven of whom were replicas of the original group, those first brought to Winterfell when they were children. Sansa had insisted on sewing it for him, then had it sent by ship from Pyke to Sea Dragon Point, where Robb had built a port around twenty years ago. (It was now a bustling city in its own right, fierce in rivalry with White Harbour for trade.) Robb wrapped his lovely cloak around Meera’s shoulders with pride. Then they were instructed to look upon one another and say the words.

“I am hers and she is mine from this day, until the end of my days.” said Robb, as Meera spoke her part in unison, and a truer word he had never spoken in his life.

Kissing Meera before Winterfell’s heart tree, Robb Stark was suddenly fourteen years old again, freshly in love for the first time, about to be a father. And all his dreams had come true.

*

“You’re certain?” Robb asked, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

“No,” said Meera, “but Maester Theodore assures me of it. I didn’t believe it myself, which is why I held back from asking him to confirm it for so long.”

“It’s not unheard of,” Robb mused, “ And yet I never thought…”

“Are you displeased with me?” Meera asked, his queen shifting nervously in her lovely dress, her hand clenched around her fork. They were breaking their fast together in private, as they almost always did these days.

“Of course not!” Robb said quickly, standing up to round the table and offer her his hands. She took them both, stepping gracefully into his embrace.

He held her close for a long moment, inhaling the scent of her, delighted by the feel of her in his arms. The years they had spent together in Winterfell as man and wife had some of the happiest in his life, and he told her so.

“You have already made me the happiest man in the known world. I did not think it was possible to feel yet more joy, but here you are, providing it for me,” Robb chucked kindly, dropping a kiss to her brow.

“I don’t know how we shall tell the children.” Meera whispered, “They might be angry with us.”

“We could hardly have predicted this.” Robb disagreed, “And besides, they have had good lives. Been cherished. We provided for them the best we could, made them good, suitable matches. Let them marry for love in most cases. Jojen… Jojen chose to leave the safety of the North. Essos is a dangerous place. What happened was not our fault.”

“We should have protected him, Robb. He shouldn't have felt he needed to run away, without our leave.” Meera sighed, for it was an old discussion between them, circular and unending. They would never be rid of the guilt.

Robb rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms, comfortingly. “Young men are willful and exuberant. I was the same. I would not be told; I did not want to be coddled, protected at all times. Jojen wanted to explore, to see the world in truth. He took the risk, and the consequences that fell upon him… If I could go back, I would have kept him in Winterfell. Had I known what he would choose to do, left to his own devices in the Neck.”

“As would I,” Meera agreed. “But we cannot go back. Perhaps we might persuade all the children to come home for a time.”

“Though they are hardly children anymore,” Robb said with a smile. “I should like that, though I am not sure Cerena can be persuaded.”

Cerena hadn’t set foot in Winterfell since Robb had married his former mistress. She had always taken her mother’s side in their arguments, and though she professed to follow both the old gods and the new, was always closer to the Seven. Out of all his children, she had taken the most umbridge with her father’s natural children, or at least the idea of them.

“She will come around,” Meera promised him, “It must be difficult for Cerena to see me here, in her mother’s place.”

“Rosa was always in your place.” Robb countered, to which Meera shook her head and protested.

“What a horrid thing to say, Robb Stark. You chose to marry her.”

“I did,” Robb admitted, “And I thought of you, even on my first wedding day.”

“Enough,” Meera said, “Let us not sully this moment with past issues. Jojen, Rosa… we can never undo what was done, only look to the future.”

As usual, she was correct, and he told her so. He was thrilled with her news, but confessed his fear that their advanced age would make things difficult.

“Neither of us may make it to my Mother’s impressive age. I know what it is, to be young and fatherless.”

“Those are worries for another day. Ned is a good man; he will see to the North, this household included. I do not doubt his affection for all his siblings. He would take all due care.”

Robb’s heart swelled with pride to hear her speak so well of his son by another woman. But then Meera had always had enough love to spare for all his family. She loved anyone who shared blood with Robb out of hand, simply for being his kin. Such was the depth of her love for him.

He kissed her deeply then, for the joy of being able to do it legitimately. It never grew old, being able to make love to her in his home, to hear her addressed as “your grace” and “Queen Meera”, to wake up beside her every morning and spend all his days at her side.

“I will have matched my parents, when all is said and done.” Robb realised with a sudden smile. “I never expected to, as a boy. Six babes! Not counting Jon of course.”

“An auspicious number, for Starks.” Meera agreed. “Perhaps this little one will claim two good men as his brothers, as you did.”

“I hope they find companions as good and loyal as Jon and Theon,” replied Robb, before finally giving in to the urge to sweep her off her feet, as she laughed and wrapped her arms about his shoulders.


	100. Thea

THE DUPLICITOUS TRAVELLER

“Thea!” Mother called, her icy voice lashing out like a whip.

Thea stopped at once, conditioned to the sound of her lady mother’s voice, echoing down Pyke’s long stone corridors. Mother’s voice, ringing through Highgarden’s elegant marble walls decorated as they were with elaborate sound-muffling tapestries, wasn’t much different- though the passages were much less dingy and damp. Then she cringed, realising her mistake, and had only scant seconds to cover for it. She turned with a guileless smile on her rosy lips.

“I’m Robbyn, Mother!” She tittered innocently, “Thea is already homeward bound, remember? The ship set sail…”

“Don’t try your games with me, Thea. You test my patience as it is.” Mother hissed, “You might have been able to fool your father and brothers, perhaps even Leo. But not I. I brought you into this world. You think I cannot tell my girls apart?”

Thea had only a moment to make up her mind. She could protest, but Mother had never been one to be easily fooled. Mother didn’t talk much about her abilities as a Seer, but perhaps her ability to look through a lie stemmed from that. Besides, taking Mother into her confidence was always the smarter choice.

“Come into the solar, Mother.” Thea said imperiously, dropping the act.

Once they were safely inside, Thea sat primly at Robbyn’s table, Mother joining her with a wary look on her face. The two women sat close together, so that they may talk in hushed tones and still hear one another. It did not do to be incautious. Thea didn’t know quite where to begin, to explain their scheme, but knew at least that Mother would be discreet. Sansa Greyjoy wasn’t one to make foolish mistakes, out of a need to be honourable and truthful at all times. She wouldn’t expose them, regardless of how distasteful she found their scheme.

“Why are you here? Why did Robbyn consent to this game? You are not girls any longer, this cannot be a mere jape. Not for her to have committed to going all the way to the Capital of the Five Kingdoms.” Mother began shrewdly, fixing her second daughter with a sharp look.

Thea worried at the pretty tablecloth covering Robbyn’s solar table nervously.

“I don’t think I can have children.” she eventually whispered, ashamed that a hot tear slipped down her cheek. She quickly scrubbed it out of existence.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Mother murmured, leaning forward to stroke her hand down Thea’s cheek gently. “But I don’t understand what....”

Then Mother’s eyes widened in horror as she pieced the puzzle together, and she jerked her hand back as though Thea’s skin were poison. Lightning quick, she reared forward and struck Thea's cheek with a resounding slap, forcing Thea’s head to the side, before she clutched her stinging face in disbelief. Mother wasn’t a violent or volatile person, so the action was a great shock to her.

“Stupid, stupid girl.” Mother snarled viciously. “You have put our entire family at risk! If King Robert finds out, he could have your sister killed!”

“Who would believe it?” Thea replied, “No one would think-”

“You assume!” Mother said in a forceful whisper, still mindful that someone might overhear. “You guess! Do you think Cersei Lannister ever expected anyone to find out about her bastards?”

Mother was white with fury, rendered speechless as she shook her head in disbelief, utterly disappointed in her foolish daughter.

“The Five Kingdoms still far, far outweigh us in military power and wealth. Should they rise against us…” Mother shook her head again, “You witless imbecile. You have jeopardized our entire realm. And Robert Baratheon’s legacy, which he lost once already. Do you think he would spare your sister, out of sentiment, for our sake-?”

“Then you had best help me ensure that no one finds out,” Thea countered mulishly, unwilling to admit her misdeed for what it was. She was not afraid of old King Robert, wheezing in his deathbed.

Mother sat back heavily into her chair, biting down on the nail of her thumb, but said nothing, looking out across the room with unseeing eyes.

“What was I supposed to do?!” Thea finally snapped, “I’ve already lost two babes within me. Harlen needs an heir. Or he will set me aside!”

“So you send your sister in your place?” Mother said scornfully. “While you play at being Lady Tyrell, and hope your sister’s children will accept you as their mother, in the interim. You truly expect your sister to just surrender her child to you?”

“It was her idea,” Thea insisted, as though that made any difference. "It is no secret that Steffon is sickly. He has one daughter and no sons, if he dies without male issue, Harlen will be King. A King must have an heir."

Mother glared at her in furious disgust, but did not deny her words. It was enough vindication for Thea to take heart once more in the plan they had concocted.

“I cannot prevent this scheme without revealing it.” Mother said at length. “But do not think I will ever forget the position you have put me in here. Do not turn to me with your tears, when your sister wishes to tell her child the truth, and the child comes to hate you both, for the lie you have made of their life.”

“It won’t be like that.” Thea said naïvely, “No babe will be more loved-”

“My brother Jon was loved.” Mother countered mercilessly. “And he has never forgiven my father for claiming him as his own, when he was not.”

There was nothing Thea could say to that. She could only pray that the outcome would not be the same for her. But that time if it ever came, was too far away to consider now. She could not know how quickly the years would rush up to meet her, before she would be called up, to be held accountable for her decisions, her excuses found wanting and her pleas falling on deaf ears.

*

A letter came from the Capital for Thea, though of course it was addressed to Lady Tyrell. Her sister’s hand, so close to her own, spelling out death for them both, and doom for their family. Face pallid, skin sweaty from running the entire way with her skirts in her hands, Thea rushed into the chambers that had been given to her mother, when Sansa Greyjoy had moved to Highgarden permanently.

Thea burst into the room like a summer storm. But she carefully shut the door behind her, so as not to let it slam. It would not do to have the servants come running. Secrecy and discretion were paramount, now more than ever. Mother turned to her, her face full of concern when she saw the ashen horror displayed on Thea’s features.

“What is it?” she asked, charging forward to clasp Thea’s forearm with her hand. “What has happened?”

“All is lost,” Thea said in a low, limp voice. With out another word, Thea handed her lady mother the missive which spelled the destruction of their House, and war against their people.

With trembling fingers, Mother held the scroll and read the words aloud;

“Dearest Robbyn, happy news at last! I am with child. Maester Hayle says it is definite, though Harlen and I did not lay together on the journey home, for we were too seasick on the boat for such activities. Highgarden must be a special place for Greyjoys, as the babe was conceived there. You must come to the Capital at once, I insist. I need my sister with me at this precious time.”

The word Highgarden had been written with force, the emphasis obvious in its meaning. The scroll fell from Mother’s hand, landing to the floor like the footfall of a hundred thousand soldiers bearing death down upon them.

“You made the switch, at the harbour?” Mother confirmed, but she barely saw Thea’s answering nod. “Then the child is not Harlen’s. It will not be born with Baratheon features, and your sister will be beheaded as a whore.”

Thea began to weep, her shoulders shuddering as she shivered in fear and regret.

“This is what comes of folly and cunning schemes,” Mother said, slow and deliberate. “You have murdered us all.”

“No!” Thea moaned, “No, no, I will go to the Capital. I can save her.”

“It will be too late by then, she will be showing.” Mother countered, “It is hopeless.”

Thea shook her head, clutching onto her lady mother’s upper arms. “Please Mother, you must know a way out of this, you must help me!”

For a long time, Mother said nothing, watching her youngest daughter with reluctance and suspicion, before she finally gave a decisive nod.

“Imprudent girl. You will follow my instruction absolutely?” She asked, in the manner of an order.

Thea nodded vigorously, immediately. What other path could she take? She could not see a way forward, but Mother had the Sight, she was favoured by the gods. She may be able to beg the old gods for good fortune that they would not grant Thea.

“I will pray,” announced Mother, “and then I will send a raven to Dragonstone.”

“To Uncle Jon?” said Thea, bewildered by the non-sequitur, “Whatever for?”

“No,” said Mother, “To Aemon. Only Aemon can save us now.”

“Aemon,” Thea repeated faintly, “But they say he practices blood magic, like his mother.”

“He saved Jojen Reed’s life,” Mother said firmly, “And we will be very lucky if he manages to save our’s, from the hangman’s noose that you have wrapped around our collective throats.”

“What can he possibly do for me? My body will not support a child.” Thea began to worry her left finger-beds with her other hand, until Mother prized them apart and sent her a quelling look.

“You assume, and it will one day be your downfall. But not this day,” Mother dismissed her claims, “Aemon is capable of a great many things. He may not be able to make your body able to host a child at any given time. But to bring forth a special child, at a specific time, as a result of a certain ritual? Yes. Aemon is certainly capable of that.”

“But at what cost? What will he take in return?” Thea pressed, still worried. “What shall we sacrifice in order to fulfill the wishes of a shadowbinder?”

“You dare to ask? You will give him whatever he demands,” Mother said darkly, fixing Thea with a stony, unimpressed look. “You will pay the Iron price for your foolish behaviour, and without complaint. You have brought this upon yourself, and you have no one else to blame.”

Thea could not dispute that, and so she did not try.

*

Thea had been fraught the entire way to King’s Landing, on the swiftest Redwyne ship available. An Ironborn galley would have been best, but none were moored in the Reach that they knew of. Waiting for one to arrive from Pyke would take too long. They had no choice but to board the most robust vessel available, and hope they would be on time.

Robbyn’s baby was only just beginning to show, her smile fixed but her eyes terrified, when they arrived at Robert Baratheon’s court. They had sent out the news that Robbyn was with child also. Leo was overjoyed at the thought of another child, and could not understand why his apparent wife wished to travel so far when newly pregnant. But Mother ran roughshod across his complaints, and so they arrived in King’s Landing with their household. Thea had stuffed her dresses with a little padding, to cover her lack of expanding stomach, though in the early stages they could pretend she was just not showing yet.

Aemon met them at the port, grim and serious, skulking in the shadows as always. Thea went to meet with her sister, while Mother explained the whole sordid tale to their cousin. Robbyn had sequestered herself away for the duration of her pregnancy so far. Thea’s previous lost pregnancies were an easy excuse, to keep herself out of the public eye. But their family was another thing altogether; Harlen, Robert and Margaery all visiting regularly to assure themselves of her continuing comfort. She scarcely had a moment alone; if they were not there, her ladies in waiting were crowding around her, sharing stories of their own babes and pregnancies.

In the end, they were only afforded a fraught half-hour, when the servants were sent away. Robbyn leapt from Thea’s bed, dragging off her nightdress for Thea to pull on. With Mother on hand to draw Robbyn’s hair back into the simple style that Thea had purposefully worn that day, Robbyn herself pulled on Thea’s pretty, wrap-around dress. In a matter of moments they were done. With Thea back in her rightful bed, pretending to be with child, and Robbyn in her own Tyrell-blue dress, primly sat beside Mother as a dutiful sister would.

Aemon had not outlined his plans yet, or what required from her. But Thea had Mother’s assurance that he had the skill necessary, to draw a babe from her hostile, barren womb. She could only hope that whatever blood magic she was forced to partake in, would not ruin her chances of meeting her ancestors in the Drowned God’s watery halls.

She did not know if they would manage to perform the ritual without being caught. Perhaps she would have to fake another loss. But more pertinently, Thea knew she would not have been able to find a way out of this mess without her mother’s level-headed, calm assistance. Mother had no nonsense about her, and Thea had never been more grateful for it.

But when she attempted to thank her, Mother would not have it.

“Do not thank me for deeds I was forced to perform, to ensure the safety of our House, after you brought us almost to the brink of ruin. A more terrible position I do not know that I was ever in,” Mother hissed, bringing an embarrassed blush to Thea’s cheek.

“I am sorry, Mother.” she said, “You must know that I will never try such a thing again.”

“If you do, I shall not be here to see it,” Mother replied promptly. “You have tried my patience to its limit. But my greatest sadness from this endeavour, is that you have made me glad for the very first time that your lord father is no longer with us, to see the reckless knave you have become.”

Ashamed, Thea dipped her head. Allowing her Mother’s harsh censure to wash over her, waves of contempt almost dragging her under. She could not be sorry for doing everything in her power, to endure the safety of her marriage and position in the world. But she was very sorry that it had jeopardised the people that she loved most. Thea had been a fool not to come to Mother in the first instance, to consider every possible angle, before she tied a knot she could not easily undo.

If she had, she might not be relying on Aemon, to help her birth some abominable shadow-creature, to pass off as her child. Only the gods knew what kind of half-breed she would be bringing into the world, as a direct result of her ill-conceived plot.

*

The ritual wasn't as terrible as Thea had imagined it was going to be. It required King’s blood, and lots of it. She had thought for one moment Aemon was asking her to kill old King Robert, but of course he was more sensible than that.

They all had King’s blood; Robbyn and Thea through their father, Aemon from his ancestors, even Harlen volunteered some, though unknowingly, when Thea persuaded him to play a risky bedroom game involving ropes and a knife. Mother's blood was most potent of all, being both mother and sister to a King, with her coming from the ancient bloodline of Winter kings.

Aside from Harlen, all of them had their blood sucked by leeches, which were then ground up into a paste. On the night of a full moon, a lump of it was stirred into a thin broth Thea had to drink, which also contained dragon blood, wolf meat and the eye of a stag. The rest of the paste was spread out into curious symbols on her stomach, which glowed unnaturally when Aemon chanted over them, his eyes glinting blood-red in the firelight.

Thea could not wash off the leech paste until it burned, telling her a child had been conceived. She lay with Harlen repeatedly that night, wearing a dark night dress so the dark marks would not be visible through it. In the hour of the wolf, her stomach began to sting, and she hurried to her water bowl, and used a rag to wash away the evidence of the blood magic. She poured the incriminating bloody water out of the window, and settled back into bed with her oblivious husband. Sleep did not come easy, but then she did not expect it to ever again, now that some kind of half-breed monster was growing within her.

*

When she returned from breaking her fast in the morn with Robbyn and Mother, outside in the gardens, (having insisted that the babe needed fresh air and for her not to be cooped up inside every single day), Thea found a surprise guest in her solar.

A dark and silent hulk of a man stood in the corner the room when she entered it. His dark brow was heavy with a natural scowling look, his features best suited to grim expressions. Thea started in surprise, before a wide smile broke out on her face.

“Nuncle!” She cried, running forward to throw her arms about Victarion Greyjoy’s beefy neck. “Oh, what a lovely surprise!”

Her late lord father’s uncle patted her on the back gently, a man very much aware of his own strength.

“And a sweet sight you are, lass.” he said gruffy, with a small grin.

“Have you come to King’s Landing for trade? Or is it only a waypoint to somewhere more adventurous?” asked Thea, her eyes bright with excitement.

She rarely saw her Ironborn relatives, living as she did at the other side of Westeros. And with how distantly they were treated by the Baratheon court at King’s Landing, she could not blame them for not wanting to make the journey often. Though they were always received with joy by Thea herself, the rest of the court were leery and would often make rude japes at their expense. Only to make the situation more uncomfortable when the Ironborn responded in kind. Thea could not blame them for it; her people were proud of their heritage and rightly so, even if they only raided far from Westeros’ shores now, as per the agreements set down after the war of the False Stags.

Mother entered the room behind her, silent as a grave.

“He is here for me,” she said, and Thea turned to her in shock. It had been many years since Mother had set foot on the Islands. She said they were too full of ghosts and memories for her, the entirety of their shores barren and unwelcoming, now that Father had alighted from them forever.

“For you?” Thea clarified, “Are you going home to Pyke, Mother?”

“No,” said Mother shortly. “I told you I am done providing an escape from calamity, for you and your sister both. And unlike you girls, your brother Urrigon is perfectly capable of seeing to his own affairs, without my help. Jon, likewise, does not need me either.”

“But surely you cannot mean…?” Thea trailed off uncertainly.

Mother and Father had travelled far in their day. Her youngest brother had even been born in Essos, during their far-flung adventures. But Mother was not the sort of woman to go gallivanting off on her own, without the protection that a marriage afforded her. Mother hadn’t left the comfort of their family since father died; first advising Uri when he won the Kingsmoot, then spending several years in the Reach with Robbyn. Mother visited King’s Landing occasionally to check on Thea, or else went to Jon at the Crag, in mainland Ironborn territory. It was extremely out of character for Mother to want to leave them, and that worried Thea.

“But where shall you go?” She pressed, “Do you truly mean to leave Westeros?”

“Did I not say as much already?” Mother reminded her, “My nerves cannot take being the shelter for your every storm. Send your pleas to Uri, and hope that he will save you from yourself.”

“There won’t be a need for it in future!” Thea wailed, “Mother, please don’t go!”

“Hush, child.” Mother said firmly, “It shall not be forever. But it is past time that I visited your brother in Volantis.”

The set of Mother's chin was firm, her burning red hair bouncing faintly as she shook her head, resolute.

“Volantis?” repeated Thea faintly. “But there have been rumours of grave dangers in the Summer Sea, even so close to Westeros. The Stepstones have closed themselves off, and the Dornish report more and more strange occurrences by the day!”

“Why else would I call upon your Uncle to defend me?” Mother pointed out, “Do you think me ignorant of the world outside our family, Thea?”

“No, Mother,” Thea blushed, chastened. “It is only that I worry for you, and I need you here. It is my first babe Mother. What if I cannot raise it properly?”

“It will be a babe like any other,” said Mother reassuringly, with a warning glance toward Nuncle Victarion, who of course knew nothing about the magic. “You have your goodmother and sister here at court. Margaery can provide you with much motherly comfort, and I will write to you. You are not alone, and I have not seen my youngest son for years. Letters alone cannot ease a mother's mind.”

Thea signed heavily. She did not know what manner of beast was growing within her, and doubted even Robbyn could ease her worries over it. Selfish it might make her, but she needed Mother more than her brother did. Men were expected to cope alone. But a woman grew to rely on the ladies around her for support. It was not fair of Mother to leave her now, at such a crucial time. But Thea could see that Mother would not be moved by this, so tried another tactic.

“What of yourself Mother?” She said carefully, “Do you not worry what might happen, should you be separated on the journey? Nuncle’s protection is formidable, but an unwedded woman with a prestigious name, is always at risk. You could be forcibly wed for your perceived wealth.”

Mother levelled her with a flat look. “Clever girl. Did you think that was a conclusion I would miss? That is also why your uncle is here.”

Thea looked between her two relatives. Nuncle, silently brooding, a man built like a brick wall. So like Jon in looks, that their brother constantly wore his hair and clothing in the manner their father did, to avoid the japes that he was actually their Nuncle’s get. Now the silly rumours would begin again in earnest.

Thea pointed this out, but Mother only laughed.

“It will be a marriage in name only, and anyone who knows us well will understand that.” She dismissed Thea’s final argument with a wave of her hand. "This way I will not have to give up the Greyjoy name, which I shall relinquish for no man."

Mother stepped close to her then, placing her hands on the sides of Thea’s face.

“This is not a punishment, my darling girl,” she said softly, “Do not take it to heart so. But it is time that I left these shores. Everywhere I look, I see echoes of your father. Of the life we spent together, in such love and laughter, cut short in its prime. It breaks my heart, at each and every reminder that we will never reenact those moments together again.”

“But to go so far?” Thea sniffled. “Must you, truly?”

“I have never been to the part of Volantis which Sandor calls home,” Mother replied, “It will be an adventure. Which is excellent, as I am in sore need of one.”

Thea surrendered then, and allowed her lady mother to pull her close. Whatever creature was soon to be born, suckle from her and call her ‘mother’, she must learn to deal with, without the protection of her own. She supposed it was probably a fitting consequence. To be plunged into such a circumstance by the Drowned God, in recompense for almost destroying the lives of his most devoted followers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you knew me IRL, you would know that I detest baby-stealing storylines of any and all kinds. Loathe them. Not only are they a goddamn horrific thing to think about happening to anyone, they're plain lazy storytelling. So instead you get the old bait-and-switch ;)


	101. Sansa XXVI

THE LONE TRAVELLER

Sansa stood on the deck, her eyes shut placidly, her feet planted confidently apart. She was memorising the sensation of the sweet sea air stroking her red ringlets, and salt spray skipping across the leather bodice of her dress in a repetitive rhythm of sprinkling. Her smile was a subdued secret that she kept, as she was lulled the melody of the slowly pitching ship, bobbing robustly through the frothy white surf.

“I see you found your sea legs,” Theon teased, his lovely bright eyes sparkling with fond affection.

Sansa responded with a light shrug, a small, delicate movement.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Theon nodded toward the clear horizon, the sky such a blazing shade of blue that it was almost purple.

“Magnificent,” Sansa agreed, because it was: despite the natural fear that had crept up her neck to settle about her shoulders like an unwanted cloak, once the land had dropped out of view.

She could not deny that the raw power of the ocean, with nary a rock in sight to marr it, held a beauty unrivalled by even the Trident, or the greatest lakes in Westeros. Rolling waves of indigo and black turned green and magenta, depending on the position of the sun. The sky was alternately streaked orange, pink and red plumes of colour, vibrant shades she had never seen in such scope before.

“Thank you,” said Theon, in regard to no action Sansa could identify.

She turned to face him fully in question, and he offered her a sheepish half-shrug of one shoulder.

“I’m not sure I should ever have been half so bold, were it not for a wife as courageous as you,” he confessed plainly.

“I don’t know-” Sansa immediately denied, but Theon shook his head decisively before she could counter him.

“I’m no craven,” said Theon, “Yet there are shades of strength, I think. Castle-trained men can fight, and will die for what they believe is right. Many take hidden steps to secure the legacy of their House and personal line. But most remain safe upon the shores of their forebears, and accept the lot they have been granted, without reaching too far above it.”

Sansa agreed that this was a true assessment for the lives of the vast majority of Westerosi men.

“And yet not I,” Theon grinned, “You pressed me to become a commander of men; a King, no less. Your understanding of the world, and the people governing it, made me a better leader. Your love made me a better man.”

Sansa blushed, startled to feel thorny tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Though she and Theon were honest with one another, they rarely spoke so candidly. Theon would not allow her to deny his words.

“And now here we are,” he concluded, “Off to broker a trading alliance with the Free Cities, trade of a magnitude no Ironborn has ever dared, in a land we have personally never seen. Sansa, my love, you are a furnace; and you forged me into the sort of King that begins a _dynasty_. I never dreamed to reach so high. I would never have dared, were it not for you.”

He took her pale hand from where it had been resting on the rim of the ship, and clasped it betwixt both of his own. Despite the brisk wind, Theon’s hands were warm as he drew her hand to his mouth, to press a reverent kiss upon it.

“It has been an honour to stand beside you,” Sansa replied softly, “And I am proud to call you my own dear heart.”

Sansa was captivated by the love she saw reflected in Theon’s eyes.

 _In the end, all of my selfish dreams came true,_ she mused.  _I married a Prince from another Kingdom and moved far from home. He made me a Queen, and yet I couldn’t care less for any of that._

“Domeric Bolton asked me once, if I could ever truly be satisfied in a place like Pyke, with no trees and as many luxuries.”

Theon snorted at her frank assessment, but did not interrupt. Years by her side had only imbibed him with deeper respect for her opinion and advice. He had moulded into a patient man, and a genuinely attentive listener.

“I told him I should be pleased with a hut, so long as I had you to share it with,” she revealed.

Theon’s brows flew sky-ward in surprise.

“Even then, you loved me so?” He blurted out.

“Even then,” Sansa confirmed, drawing their still clasped hands to her own lips, to repeat his lordly gesture of affection on his warm skin.

“Sansa…” Theon whispered, her name dropping from his lips like a prayer.

“My Queen?”

A wrinkle appeared on her brow, and she turned her face away from the offensive intrusion.

“Your grace?”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered open, swiftly scalded by the bloody summer sunset. Victarion shuffled in front of her, unnerved to be the sole focus of her burning gaze.

Sansa had a brutal reputation. Though Victarion was a formidable foe on the battefield, she was skilled in the remit he was not, namely anything that required intelligence. He never challenged her authority.

Sansa did not feel she had entirely earned her infamy. Whispers told her it was due mainly to exaggerated embellishments of second-hand retellings. One gruesome tale suggested she had borrowed Theon’s axe to dismember Euron Greyjoy, whilst his wronged brother watched stoically. It was ludicrous fear-mongering nonsense, and none who actually set eyes upon Sansa would ever take it for truth. None would suggest she was capable of chopping firewood, let alone cleaving off a man’s limb.

Yet Sansa begrudgingly admitted to herself it made sense such rumours would persist, in the far-flung places of the known world. Places where they might suppose Sansa Greyjoy an Ironborn by birth, mayhaps with a stature akin to Brienne of Tarth. But it was strange to know that Victarion, who knew her well, was intimidated by her.

Sansa said nothing to put Victarion at ease. She merely waited for him to speak. He had come to understand when her silences indicated a willingness to listen.

“The wind is picking up, my Queen. I think we are in for a rough night. It would be best to retire to your cabin now.”

Sansa cast her eyes across the barren sea, devoid of charm, its inky depths undulating against the dull grey clouds, speaking of heavy rain and tempestuous tides to follow.

“Aye,” she replied simply, before dipping her head into a shallow nod and taking her leave.

“Sansa…” Theon’s voice echoed in the salty breeze, slipping beneath the folds of her dress, scalding across her chest, cascading down her breasts, to collect in the plains of her stomach.

She pressed her hands to her stomach, as though she could trap and keep a part of him there. But she knew it was futile. The only pieces of Theon which remained in this life, were the five grown children he had begotten upon her, already slipped from her fingers and scattered across the land.

*

_Dearest Mother and Father,_

_Today I write to you following the Festival of Light. Though it is Aunt Melisandre’s festival, it is well loved by the people of Dragonstone, even those who keep the Seven. I was not sure the Drowned God should like me to take part in a ritual to honour the fire god. But Ser Davos said you should join the celebrations of your hosts when you are invited. We all lined up on the cliffs at twilight and I wore the new cloak you sent Mother, and it was very warm._

_The candles we used are very thin and quite small, and I said a prayer to the Drowned God when I lit mine. Uncle Jon said that even the surest sailor needs a candle to read his maps at night, and the stars are the burning fires that guide his way. I prayed that my parchment lantern might not be swallowed by the sea, before it had a chance to fly above you both. I hope you are not displeased with me for taking part._

_You have always told me that I must respect my family Mother, especially when I am a guest in their home and I did not want to be rude. I wanted to join the celebration. I thought of you and Father when I lit my candle and stood with everyone lined on the high cliffs above the beach. We had to wait until the colour of the sea matched the colour of the sky before we could let them go. Aunt Melisandre said some funny words in Asshai’i. Aemon speaks it as easily as the Common Tongue but he has only managed to teach me a few words. Aunt Melisandre released the first lantern and then thousands of tiny burning lights were swept into the sky. It was as though a gust of wind had blown the stars off course, and they were drifting from me all the way to shine over you. It was a splendid sight._

_I have told you in my other letters how well I find my cousins. Aemon is very clever and keeps a plain look on his face when he is japing, which makes it all the funnier. Jojen is quick and mischievous, though most don’t know it because he has a sweet face. None would suspect him of being the one who released the chickens into the kitchens, but I know it was him. I did not tell Uncle Jon though he was very cross, because Aemon and Jojen are my brothers in arms and I am loyal._

_I know you are doing important work in Essos and why I could not come. I know the new trade will help our people. I am happy here and glad you sent me to foster with Uncle Jon. But I miss home very much. At first I was so very busy with my lessons and trying not to get lost in the keep and sparring with my cousins it was as though I did not have time to dwell on home. But now I think of it often and look forward to when you can come and visit, and tell me everything about the Free Cities. I do hope you will get a tattoo when you are there, Father. Uncle Jon’s tattoos are brilliant. The wolves are very well-done, but my favourite is the green and purple kraken. At fIrst I was surprised that Uncle Jon would have our sigil on his skin, but now I understand they are for our joined family._

_Ser Davos told me I should tell you of my lessons, but I forgot until now. I am good with the sword, and Uncle Jon said I am a better archer than Father already, but I know he was japing. Many people think Uncle Jon doesn’t jape, but he is like Aemon, and keeps his face plain. Aunt Melisandre says he sulks too much. But I think he is just very busy. The men here are not like the men at home. They are not so loud here, and do not oft jape nor drink as much ale. Lord Valeryon is very sour and mean. There is no one here who quaffs his drink and sings like Uncle Dagmer. And no one juggles knives at dinner like cousin Quenton._

_I must go to my lessons now. Aunt Melisandre has been teaching us all to slide into the shadows, but I am not very good at it. She says we must learn to do it in the bright light of morn, because that is when it’s hardest. If we can master it in the morn, it will be easy. We must never do it when the sun has set, not unless we travel all the way to Asshai to bind a shadow there. Jojen is much better than me, even though we began learning at the same time. Aunt Melisandre says I shall master it with time, and Jojen has an advantage because the Neck was forged from shadow, like Asshai._

_I wait for the day when I see your ship from the cliffs, and race down to the beach to wait for you there._

_Your dutiful son,  
_ _Uri_

_PS. Have you seen a dragon? Aemon says they were spotted over Meereen, though I think everyone would be talking of it, if it were so._

Sansa set the letter on her walnut writing desk, and shared a smile with her husband. She missed her son like a physical ache, but it wasn’t safe to take one so young so far from home to unfamiliar territories. Essos had slavers and pirates in its waters. Though she might be brave enough to venture toward those perils herself, she would never risk her son so.

“He seems joyful,” Sansa said, “Even though he misses us.”

Theon nodded. “Are we quite sure Melisandre should be teaching him magic?”

“You gave your permission when Jon first wrote to us, we can’t retract it now.”

“I suppose.” Theon sighed, still sounding dubious about it, but recognising when a battle was already lost.

“Well, are you going to do it?” Sansa asked, suddenly looking coy.

“Do what?” Theon asked, over an influx of loud cawing gulls outside their window, with its pretty yellow shutters, that were open to let in the cool sea breeze. Gauzy fabric floated in front of it, preventing the harsh glare of the sun falling directly onto them.

“Get a tattoo, of course.” Sansa tittered, laughing uproariously at Theon’s mortified splutter.

“And have my arm fall off?”

Sansa could not reply, for she was too occupied with her giggling.

“Not even a small one?” She wheedled, but he was not moved.

“Impudent wench,” Theon declared, rising up on his knees from where he had been sprawled lazily on the rug near her feet, to place his hands on her waist and draw her down into a series of kisses.

Breathless, Sansa leaned down into a bowed curve to rest her head against him, her face turned away. So that he would not see her troubled countenance. Out of the window, she could see the white spires and terracotta roofs of the buildings, stretching out for miles, almost as far as the eye could see, before the verdant mountains in the far distance.

“I miss him,” she revealed in a hushed tone, as though the pain of it would be somehow nullified by not declaring it loudly.

“As do I,” Theon replied, stroking her back with one large, sturdy hand soothingly.

Sansa closed her eyes, and brought her son’s face to mind. Uri had dark hair, like Theon’s mother and sister. It didn’t curl the way Sansa’s did. But he had her Tully blue eyes, and Theon’s smile. He was curious and cheery and asked an exhausting amount of questions. Sansa wanted to wrap Uri in her arms and set him on her lap, while he practiced his letters by reading aloud to her, as he used to. She wanted to tuck him into bed at night and kiss his brow as she had so often before, and sing him to sleep with sweet Northern lullabies.

“I don’t want to leave him on Dragonstone,” said Sansa, a plea she let slip before she could stop herself.

Theon pulled back from her to look her in the eye.

“We agreed to send him to Jon for three years.” He reminded her.

“I know what we said,” Sansa sobbed, “But I don’t think I can stand it. My baby, Theon, my only son. I want to take him home with us, when we return to Westeros.”

Theon sighed, but she could see he was softening to her plight.

“Jon might be insulted if we take him home early-”

“Not our Jon,” Sansa countered quickly, “Some unrelated lord, perhaps. But Jon will believe us, when we say its no reflection on his ability to care for Uri and the lessons they’ve provided. I need my son with me, Theon. Jon will understand.”

“Hush,” Theon gentled her, wiping away the tears that had spilled upon her cheeks, “Do you think I’d say no? I’d not deny you anything that was in my power to give, Sansa, you know it.”

“Really?” Sansa gulped, her blue eyes bright with hope, “Do you mean it?”

“I mean it, my love,” Theon confirmed, “We’ll take Uri home with us when we return to Dragonstone.”

“Oh Theon!” she cried, and then Sansa said no more, throwing herself from the chair and into her husband’s open arms.

*

_Dear Mother,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. It seems an age since I last wrote to you in Essos. Though we have been parted many times in our lives, I shall never forget the joy of that first reunion on the beach at Dragonstone when I was just a boy. Watching you and Father step out of the row boat and into the water seemed like a dream, I had whiled away idle moments with the thought for so long. You were like the Southron Mother goddess given form in that moment. When you embraced me I never wanted to be parted from you again._

_I do not remember the moment I grew out of such feelings; as all children must one day, when they step upon their own paths. I only know that the longing I felt for my parents then has rekindled in me now that you are returned to Essos, and this time with my Dalton. I am glad to hear he is getting along well with his cousins. Thank you for having the sketches of Sandor and his wife and sons commissioned. I have never seen him with such long hair! But it suits him I have decided. Steffarion looks a little like my Theon, I think. Around the chin and mouth._

_Nesse has come to visit us. She looks so lovely. Wedded life clearly agrees with her. Last night she sang a song that you must have taught her, for it so reminded me of you. I think it must be a Northern song, because Beth knew it. I hope someday you will sing for me again, Mother._

_I know you said you didn’t require anything from us for Dalton, but I have arranged for a necklace to be delivered to you. I know you shan't treat yourself as often as you should, and now you cannot refuse, because it’s not for Dalton, it's for you._

_Father would be sad to see you so downhearted. He’d want you to do the things that always brought you joy. Please accept the necklace Mother, and wear it to a dance. Father would want you to._

_Your loving son,  
_ _Uri_

Sansa folded the letter carefully, and took another look at her new necklace. The emeralds had been set alongside diamonds. It was large and a bit gaudy for her taste; the kind of thing a great lady might wear in the court of King’s Landing.

“But it is a gift from my baby.” Sansa reasoned aloud, before lifting it from the box.

Carefully, she clasped the heavy necklace about her throat. It had been many years since she had attended any dances or sung for anyone. But perhaps the time had come for her to do so. For Uri.

And for Theon, who had always tried so hard to ensure she was always happy.

 _Oh, my love,_  she thought,  _how could I ever be happy without you?_   _But I shall try; for Uri, I will try._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_  
>  _And_ **sorry I could not travel both**  
>  **And be one traveller,** _long I stood_  
>  _And looked down one as far as I could_  
>  _To where it bent in the undergrowth;_
> 
> _Then took the other, as just as fair,_  
>  _And having perhaps the better claim,_  
>  _Because it was grassy and wanted wear;_  
>  _Though as for that the passing there_  
>  _Had worn them really about the same,_
> 
> _And both that morning equally lay_  
>  _In leaves no step had trodden black._  
>  _Oh, I kept the first for another day!_  
>  _Yet knowing how way leads on to way,_  
>  _I doubted if I should ever come back._
> 
> _I shall be telling this with a sigh_  
>  _Somewhere ages and ages hence:_  
>  _Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—_  
>  _I took the one less travelled by,_  
>  _And that has made all the difference._
> 
>  -Robert Frost


	102. Ramsay Bolton

THE SLY TRAVELLER

Ramsay woke from a particularly vivid nightmare, in which he was being torn apart by cruel bites, to find himself warm and cosy beneath heavy furs upon his featherbed. A warm body was nestled in beside him, soft and relaxed in repose, and for a blissful minute, Ramsay assumed it was Myranda. Before he remembered she was dead.

That thought woke him entirely, and he rolled onto his back to open his eyes. He was confronted with the familiar dark stone ceiling of his chambers at the Dreadfort. It took him a very long time to be disturbed by this fact. Sitting up sharply, Ramsay took in the room of his boyhood, exactly as it should be, though there were a few unfamiliar additions, namely two large, high-backed leather chairs beside the fireplace, and a bowl of fruit on the small table where he usually broke his fast.

The body beside him stirred a little in sleep, with a series of indistinct mumbles before the whore became silent again, having not yet woken. Ramsay stared at the unfamiliar man in some surprise. He’d laid with one or two men before, out of idle curiosity, but he's never brought them into the Dreadfort where his father could discover it, and he’d certainly never fallen asleep beside them. Nor would he have considered himself the sort of man to allow a man to sleep in his own bed.

Frowning, Ramsay gave the whore a solid shake by the shoulder. In a longer response time that he expected, the man rolled over to face him. He opened one sleepy eye, unimpressed.

“What is it?” he yawned, evidently expecting to be allowed to sleep on.

Ramsay bristled at the lack of respect, but he supposed it was natural of him to have concealed his real identity from the whore. But the room in a castle must have rather given the game away. The young man wouldn’t last long if he didn’t know when to play humble.

“Don’t you think it’s time you were on your way?” Ramsay suggested, through gritted teeth.

His anger, on a short leash at the best of times, was already simmering on a low heat due to his confusion. The boy whore didn’t seem to care. He opened two big brown eyes, beguiling with their seeming innocence.

“Why, where are we going?” He asked, lifting his head to better take in Ramsay’s features.

“We?” Ramsay repeated, in askance.

Surely the brothels didn’t make a habit of employing whores that were this dumb? Before he could state so, the young man reached up on hand to lightly stroke the side of Ramsay’s face. It took considerable effort not to flinch from his touch, but Ramsay was not prepared to show fear in front of a stranger, so remained stoic.

“It’s too early for games, love,” said the boy, before surprising Ramsay with a peck on the cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

Then he promptly rolled over, and proceeded to do so himself. Ramsay heard his gentle snores, before he himself even had the presence of mind to close his hanging jaw.

*

Rasmay had half a mind to take his knife to the stranger in his bed, because there was  _never_ a moment that couldn’t be improved by a game. But curiosity stayed his hand. The overly-bold whore treated him like a favoured customer, as if they were well-known to one another. Yet Ramsay was certain he had never seen the man before, and that stoked his interest at the sheer audacity. Was it possible the boy had gotten him drunk and tumbled him to gain favour? If so, what use did pretending they were well-acquainted have?

Perhaps a spot of flaying would provide the answers to this conundrum. But Ramsay was rather tired himself, his shoulders and legs aching from what was surely a good tumble. He couldn’t be bothered to set about getting the implements he needed, when it was clear the boy whore was correct: it was too early to begin the day.

Ramsay’s cruel musings were interrupted in the most unimaginable manner possible. When the door to his chamber creaked open, he thought nothing of it. There were plenty of reasons servants could be disturbing his rest: everything from tending to his fireplace to a summons from his father. Nothing that peaked his interest overmuch. He continued staring at the blank wall ahead in consternation, wondering where he could have acquired this mouthy whore, and more disturbingly, why he couldn’t remember it.

The whore’s familiarity with him smacked of multiple interactions, but where Ramsay would have found the time or inclination to bother with such frivolities baffled him. He had a Kingdom to rule, an errant wife and her rebellious bastard of a brother breathing down his neck from one direction, while the lions growled at him from t’other.

Father was dead, his counsel gone with it. Killing Roose had been the hardest death Ramsay had to endure committing. Though there wasn’t much that bonded them together, Ramsay realised that there had been an underlying love there, only once he had resolved to do it. He’d been trembling by the time he embraced his father to check him for chainmail, but no amount of last-minute misgivings could stay his hand over the necessary kinslaying.

Father hadn’t been a good sire, by any man’s estimation, but he had protected and taught Ramsay in his own way. His death was regrettable, but inevitable, the moment he announced Walda was with child. Ramsay had no doubt in his mind that Father would have killed him, or more likely, let him die during some battle, to ensure the North’s loyalty to his trueborn heir.

“I know you’re busy stewing in your filth and bitterness, but never have you been quite so inattentive to me,” said the voice of a ghost; “I’m really quite sore about it.”

Ramsay leapt out of the featherbed, unheeding of his bare skin. The cool air meeting his sweaty body chilled him to his core, or perhaps that was merely due to being confronted by his long-dead brother. Dom stood not more than three paces away from him; as solid and real as the last time he had been sturdy enough to stand on his own two feet without assistance. At the sight of Ramsay’s bare self, Dom’s brows flew toward his hairline, a long-forgotten smirk springing to his lips.

“Honestly, Ramsay, I know you’re always pleased to see me-”

His teasing was cut short as Ramsay broke into a quick stride that was almost a run, before flinging himself at his elder brother, trapping him in a clinging embrace. Half-convinced that Dom would disappear as a cloud of smoke when they touched. But aside from rocking back onto his heels to absorb the blow of the enthusiastic hug, Dom remained as solid and dependable as he had always been in life. Chuckling over Ramsay’s keenness.

“Did you miss me so, little brother?” He laughed.

Dom was unprepared for Ramsay to remain suspiciously silent, nestling his head into the hollow where Dom’s neck met the furs about his throat.

“Ramsay…?” Dom pressed, stroking a soothing hand down his hair and the bare skin of his back.

But Ramsay said nothing, too busy re-learning the feel and scent of him, the hard-edges of Dom’s leather armour no deterrent. Their embrace was almost a choke-hold, such was the strength of the squeeze. Dom let out a string of nonsense hushing noises, rocking Ramsay gently as he fiddled with the straps of his cloak, until at last the leather buckles came undone, and he could settle the heavy furs about Ramsay’s own shoulders. He burrowed into them as Dom lead them toward the two high-backed armchairs beside the dying fire. The furs smelled strongly of his brother; earth and blood and something unnameable.

Dom deposited Ramsay into the first chair, kneeling afore him when Ramsay’s clutching hands clung to him, claw-like and desperate. Dom’s icy blue eyes, only a shade darker than his own, peered up at him in undisguised worry.

“I did miss you,” Ramsay admitted in a rasping whisper, raw and honest.

Dom smiled at him, puzzled. “In a few hours?”

Ramsay said nothing. The shade of his brother evidently did not know he had died. Mayhaps that was the way of it, with dead men.

 _Mayhaps the gods have returned him to me,_ Ramsay thought for one wild moment. A ridiculous notion, but as he had no other ideas to cling to, it was the one that settled in his mind, easing his disturbed self somewhat. Dom’s gaze flitted across him, unsettled but determined not to show it. Ramsay saw, however. He had always been able to see Dom’s truth, even when others could not.

“How are you here?” Ramsay enquired, utterly perplexed.

“Where else would I be?” Dom replied, equally confused.

Gently, Dom pressed the back of one hand to Ramsay’s brow, to check if he was feverish. Ramsay almost barked with laughter at it. Dom was the one in danger from illness, of the two of them. A sudden icy fear seized hold of his heart, as though an Other had punched through his chest, to crush it in one frozen fist. Ramsay grabbed hold of Dom’s forearm, squeezing tight in fear.

“How long has it been, since you returned from the Vale?”

Dom’s frown deepened. “The Vale?” he repeated, as though he had never heard of the place.

“You spent three fucking years-” Ramsay bit out, before Dom hushed him again, with the press of his free hand upon Ramsay’s cold cheek.

“Forgive me. It’s been many years since I even thought of that time,” Dom replied gently, “You know that. What’s this all about?”

Shivering, Ramsay declined to answer. Something was amiss here, very much so. People he did not know taking such familiarity was one thing, but Dom apparently restored to life, but claiming an alternate history: that was quite another. Dom encouraged him to crawl back into the featherbed before he could think of any probing questions that might provide answers. His brother didn’t seem phased to see the boy already sleeping there.

“He wouldn’t get out,” Ramsay revealed, more petulant than he intended.

Dom only laughed, bright and jolly.

“I should think not,” he said, “It’s bloody freezing and too early besides. I’m only dressed because you wanted to go hunting, but in all honestly, I’m glad we aren’t. I think it’s going to snow.”

Dom tucked him into bed as though he were a green boy, and kissed his brow.

“Get some sleep, sweetling,” he whispered, “You’ll feel better.”

*

Waking at a more acceptable hour did nothing to assuage Ramsay's discomfort, at finding himself once more in the same, incorrect castle. The unknown boy had dressed himself, and was breaking his fast at Ramsay’s table nonchalantly. Ramsay resisted the urge to yell at him to get out, and stop flouting the rules of propriety by being so blasé. The boy smiled when he saw that Ramsay was awake, and immediately offered him the plate he had prepared. Churlish, but with a stomach protesting its lack of sustenance, Ramsay yanked on the pair of breeches he found slung over a bedpost, and joined the cheery man. He was pleasantly surprised to find a plate filled with his favourite fruits, a good chunk of ham and soft bread with cheese. Suspicious again that the boy knew him so well, he watched the boy eat and make idle chatter about the unexpected snowstorm, before consenting to eat himself.

The boy in his chambers wasn’t the only new addition to the household. Whilst Ramsay was fully expecting to see his brother again, hoping it hadn’t been a particularly lucid dream, he wasn’t expecting to come across said brother in the passageway, a pretty blonde highborn girl clinging to his arm. When she noticed Ramsay looking at them, she scowled at him rudely. Ramsay returned the glare, mostly out of consternation at a second unfamiliar face in his boyhood home, than anything else. She said not a word when Dom greeted him and mentioned the blizzard.

“Well, winter has come,” Ramsay shrugged, before suddenly realising that the statement might not be an accurate one anymore. Here in this strange realm, where his dead brother pranced about with unknown girls, without a care in the world.

But Dom nodded in commiseration at his words, and that was enough. Ramsay felt himself relax marginally, relieved some truths remained.

*

He managed to avoid his father all day, having correctly surmised that he might also be here. Ramsay glimpsed Lord Bolton striding about the courtyard purposefully from a high window, feeling his stomach swoop in fear. Would Roose remember the feel of Ramsay’s dagger plunging into his heart?

 _Surely I would have awoken in the dungeons, if that were so,_ Ramsay reasoned.

He kept to the shadows regardless, and sought out another dead confidant. If all the spectres of House Bolton were somehow alive, then surely his favourite hunting companion was also? But her chambers were empty, and when he inquired the kennel master of her whereabouts, he seemed utterly bewildered. Dom hailed Ramsay, before he had the chance to grow irate with the fool.

“Where are you off to?” Dom asked.

“To see Myranda.” Ramsay replied shortly, unprepared for his brother’s face to fall, his countenance growing solemn.

“Aye,” he said, “I’ll join you. It’s been some time since I paid my respects to my mother.”

Ramsay stopped short, staring at Dom, trying to parse another meaning from his words, but finding himself unable to. Wordlessly, he followed his brother into the bowels of the Dreadfort. Far below the dungeons, and the hidden chambers that were always locked, right down to the crypts. He hid his shock that Myranda, a smallfolk girl, had been buried here. Alongside his ancestors and the beloved wives of Bolton lords long dead. Dom didn’t seem to think there was anything odd in Myranda’s tomb being the next along from his mother’s. Idly, Ramsay traced the letters on her final resting place, in the mysterious, chunky lettering of the Old Tongue. All Bolton tombs were decorated in the same way. But Myranda was not a Bolton; not unless he'd been committing even more sins than he'd been aware of, and she was secretly his father's bastard too.

“Remind me what it says?” Ramsay enquired, sure that he must be expected to know it, if Myranda had committed some feat worthy of being interned here for all eternity.

 _She must have saved my father's life,_  the thought.  _Nay, Dom’s. Mayhaps her death is the reason Dom breathes beside me._

Dom cleared his throat, before dutifully reciting: “Myranda Redbolt, beloved wife and mother. Now her bones rest with the blood of my blood.”

Ramsay turned sharply. The strange House name she had been attributed was nothing compared to the word  _mother_.

Dom lead him from the crypts silently, both of them unwilling to disturb the quietus until they began to ascend from the lowest level. Ramsay wanted to ask how Myranda had died and what had happened to her child, no doubt his bastard. Though perhaps not, if she had married into House Redbolt, whoever they were. No Northern House that Ramsay had ever heard of. Still, there were smaller clans in the mountains and the Neck, only the gods knew what all their names were. He considered going to the Maester’s tower to enquire about it, but before Ramsay could state this intention, Dom said:

“Come with me to the sparring yard. I promised our sister I’d watch her shooting since we delayed our hunt. She’ll be thrilled if you join me.”

Ramsay stopped abruptly and stared at his brother. Then stared some more when Dom cast him an enquiring look.

“Our  _what?!_ ”

Dom responded with a hard look.

"No matter where half of her blood comes from, she is still our sister, Ramsay," he chided. "No pretense is needed with me. I know you are fond of her."

Disturbed, Ramsay proceeded to follow Dom to the courtyard.

Their sister turned out to be tiny child of no more than six, with more hair than sense, which she promptly revealed by bowling into Ramsay’s legs and clinging onto him as though he were a prized doll. Ramsay stared down at her tiny form with consternation, entirely unsure how to deal with this circumstance. Supremely unbothered by Ramsay’s lukewarm reaction, the redheaded girl promptly abandoned him in order to give Dom’s knees the same level of affection.

She was frankly terrible with the bow. But then she was very little, her tiny hands not yet suited to the stillness of motion required. She managed to hit a hay target after several attempts, causing Dom to clap encouragingly, while Ramsay watched on in bewilderment. Dom nudged him with his elbow, to which Ramsay offered wide-eyed confusion before realising his mistake. He offered a belated: “Well done,” to the child.

She proceeded to beam at him with a gappy smile, teeth missing due to her youth. Wrong-footed, Ramsay shuffled closer to Dom for guidance and protection against this unfamiliar world, where Myranda was honoured and they shared a small sister. At least Dom was the same man, wholly his brother. As long as that remained unchanged, Ramsay would gather his senses soon. He had to.

*

Ramsay settled into his seat at dinner with the ginger hesitation of an uninvited guest. He pressed his lips into a firm, bloodless white line when he noticed the young man - still unnamed - approach. It was infernal, this dogged pursuit. Ramsay could not fathom how anyone could receive his negative responses, yet remain so determined to stay within stabbing distance. After escaping from his enthusiastic, doting sister, Ramsay had returned to his chambers to dress for dinner. There he found the boy doing the same, in clothes that were clearly fashioned for him, hanging in  _Ramsay’s_ closet. Ramsay had proceeded to slam about his rooms, furious and somewhat humiliated. Not just a whore, but a live-in whore. Wonderful news. No doubt his father was thrilled by that development.

Looking at the smiling young man seating himself beside Ramsay in full public view, he was even more annoyed. No man at Winterfell would have dared continually raise his ire and hope to remain unscathed. Not for the first time, Ramsay longed for the uncomplicated subservience of his Reek. These cheerful teases he received from the boy, as though every threatening glance Ramsay made was in jest, were unaccountably vexing. But the boy simply sat next to him at the high table, bold as you please, leaning into Ramsay’s space as if he would be unquestionably welcome there.

“What are you-” Ramsay snarled, before biting back his harsh words, partly due to the realisation he was about to make a scene in front of Father, but mostly because Dom kicked him sharply in the shin.

Big brown eyes turned to him in wounded hurt, and Ramsay fought down the urge to lash out. Knowing Father would be unimpressed when there were ladies present. Instead, Ramsay rubbed his smarting leg and smiled his most dangerous, charming, and ultimately cruel smile.

“What are you after this eve? Hare, or fowl?” Ramsay altered the tone of his question unconvincingly, the young man beside him frowning, before reaching for the pigeon.

The sneering young blonde woman was across the table from them, affording Ramsay frosty looks when she deigned to cross gazes with him. But they were also joined by another unknown guest, an older woman, still handsome despite her age, with long red hair and a charming smile. She doted on his Father, who seemed gratified by the attention.

Ramsay tried to parse who she was by listening to their conversation, but all he gained was her first name. It was possible she was some distant relative - Father must have some relations, after all, he couldn’t just have sprung from a frozen puddle, fully formed. But no one ever spoke of Father’s parents. If Roose had any siblings, uncles, aunts or cousins, he clearly wasn’t fond of them, as he never spoke of them. Ramsay and Dom had certainly never met anyone else claiming to have Bolton blood. As he mused on how eerie that actually was, how odd that Father never mentioned his parents and his sons didn’t even know their names, Ramsay decided the foreign woman must be Father’s mistress or wife. In this world a redheaded wife would make sense, taking into account the new sister he’d gained.

As Ramsay observed how attentive she was, without being weakly sycophantic or deferential, Ramsay recognised that this woman was a better fit for Father than timid, fat Walda. What a waste of blubber she had been. Ramsay should have skinned her and boiled down her fat for lamp oil. Alas, he’d fed her to his bitches before the thought ever crossed his mind. It was a shame that quick decisions were necessary in times of war, but one could not be expected to think of everything.

The dinner progressed as they so often did when he was a boy, with Father leading the conversation in that quiet, contained voice of his. Talking about grain, wax shortages from the lack of bees in winter, and the recent death of Lord Whitehill. Ramsay followed Dom’s lead in false sympathy for their bannerman, smirking when Dom rolled his eyes as soon as Father’s head turned. Neither of them cared what men on their land lived or died, as long as they didn’t make any trouble. A peaceful land, a quiet people: that was Father’s motto. Ramsay certainly didn’t agree with all of that sentiment: he preferred screaming, sobbing people.

After they were done with their five courses, Ramsay alighted the table quickly, but not so quick as to escape Father’s unwanted eye.

“You will stay,” Father glared at Ramsay, before settling his cold smile upon his mysterious wife, as she gave him a questioning look.

Lady Gwyn kissed Roose upon his cheek before taking her leave, Ramsay pleading silently with Dom for support, but his brother offered him a commiserating look, the kind that would look fitting accompanied by a shrug claiming inability.

“You were rude to your…. Companion, this evening,” Father stated blandly, once the hall was empty.

Ramsay shrugged, trying to affect an uninterested air. He highly doubted Father wanted to hear any sordid details, but his heart pounded, being so close to a man he had murdered once.

“Growing bored of him at last, I see,” Father said, infuriatingly condescending. “Well, it was inevitable.”

Ramsay said not a word. He wasn’t sure what he felt for his strange new follower, but already his father’s dismissal was infuriating. The boy had been nothing but dotingly sweet toward Ramsay, if maddeningly disrespectful.

“I will not have it,” Roose hissed suddenly, “Set him aside as your whore, if you wish. But I will not have you disparage a worthy member of this household, nor humiliate a loyal man - of which there are too few in this life. You will apologise, and woe betide if we lose his skills as a teacher to your feeble-minded son.”

Ramsay bristled at that. He now had confirmation that Myranda’s child was his own, and he was sure no boy of his was feeble in anything. And Ramsay was surprised to find himself suddenly furious at Father calling his young man a whore.

 _It’s acceptable when I do it, because he is so evidently mine,_ he glowered possessively. Ramsay opened his mouth to argue on behalf of his son, but one icy look from his Father stemmed his tongue.

“I do not wish to hear it. Do as I bid.”

Recognising the dismissal, Ramsay gritted his teeth and stomped out of the hall, stalking to his rooms, fury bubbling and blistering on his skin.

*

Ramsay was startled to find his chambers were warm and enticing when he returned to them.

 _Of course they are,_ he thought sourly,  _when I have a little whore always in place to do my bidding._

But the churlish attitude did not last, in the face of his sweet companion, who hurried to Ramsay’s side, and with gentle fingers, removed his surcoat with a deft touch. Then he proceeded to directed Ramsay to one of the high-backed leather chairs, pressing a goblet of wine into his cold hands. Ramsay took a small sip, expecting piss and pleasantly surprised to find it was the sour Dornish red he favoured, but Father would not oft let him drink, aside from at special feasts. There was no cause where Ramsay had come from to break into such expensive casks, save for his recent wedding to the Stark girl. But here evidently, they had some more revenue, or the boy knew how to use his wiles to gain favours on behalf of his master. Sighing heavily, Ramsay leaned back into his chair, enjoying the heat of the flickering fire washing over him.

A soft kiss was pressed to his hair, two strange hands giving his shoulders a short massage. Ramsay opened his eyes to see the young man settle himself comfortably on the arm of Ramsay’s chair, fingertips brushing against his jerkin.

“You seemed… out of sorts today, my lord,” he suggested gently, without meeting Ramsay’s eyes.

Ramsay shrugged, uncomfortable being alone with this stranger, who proposed to know him well. He struggled for some reply that would ally suspicion, and allow him to end an exceedingly trying day in relative peace. The last thing he needed was some whiney whore pressing his patience even further.

“You seemed confident.” Ramsay stated, sure it was true. “You always seem confident.”

“I do?” those big brown eyes widened, settling on Ramsay at last.

“Certainly know how to divest a man from his clothes quick enough,” Ramsay teased with a smirk, to which the young man laughed.

“It’s all that practice I had as your squire, I suppose.”

Ramsay stiffened, staring up at the young man nestled in beside him, with fresh eyes. He had a nicely proportioned face, and though his body held a healthy amount of chub, soft in the middle, he wasn’t truly fat. From what Ramsay had seen, he still had the majority of his teeth. Ramsay had assumed the boy lowborn, due to finding him in his bed. But what lowborn man was ever a squire, even to a bastard? Swallowing thickly, dizzy with the implications, Ramsay ventured to learn more, without showing glaringly obvious gaps in his knowledge.

“You haven’t spoken of your family much,” he guessed, hoping he would be correct. Even if the boy had spoken of his kin, Ramsay was willing to bet it wouldn’t have been recently, so his statement should carry some ring of truth.

The boy gave him an unfathomable look before saying, “You know my mother abandoned me as a child, and my father died not long after. What’s to speak of? Most of the rest of them are gone, too.”

“But surely not all?” Ramsay pressed, suddenly intrigued.

For the first time, he had a vested interest, and paid attention to the boy’s speech. Ramsay found that though he had the makings of a Northern accent, there was a catch on certain letters and phrases, that revealed another beneath.

“Why are you asking me of this?” The stranger asked stiffly, his resolute jollity no longer anywhere to be seen.

Ramsay bit down his immediate urge, which was to reveal the truth of his confusion, and therefore rip his tentative fixture in this castle to shreds. Instead, he shrugged, a far safer alternative.

“I only wondered if you never missed them.”

The boy snorted.

“I barely knew them. Uncle Ilyn came to visit us once, when I was very small. I don’t even remember his face. I just remember being terrified. He was so tall, and  _quiet_. Obviously.”

Ramsay flexed his fingers out of the fist they longed to close into. Uncle Ilyn, an obviously quiet man... it did not take the formidable acumen of Tywin Lannister to work out that must be the famously tongueless King’s Justice, Ilyn Payne. From House Payne, a noble house in the Westerlands. Ramsay closed his eyes, appalled. Seven hells, how had he landed a noble bedwarmer from House Payne, a House in the richest region in Westeros? No wonder Father had been furious of his conduct at dinner, which mostly consisted of Ramsay ignoring his bedmate in favour of his miraculously returned brother.

He couldn’t exactly come right out and ask the man himself how they had met. But surely someone must know the story. Taking a deep drink from the remaining wine in his goblet, Ramsay resolved to ask his boys about it. Dom might cause problems of his own, wondering just what was wrong with Ramsay’s memory that he had to ask strange questions. But his boys knew better than to question his motives about anything.

“I’m going back out,” he said, “There’s no need to ah... wait up for my return.”

“Oh,” the boy sat up swiftly. “Must you? I had thought-”

“I’m afraid I must,” Ramsay said quickly, affecting a charming smile.

The man quirked a single eyebrow at his quick response. Before Ramsay could object, he had slid onto the rug beneath them, to kneel at Ramsay’s feet.

“I think I can convince you otherwise, m’lord.”

Despite himself, Ramsay felt his blood stir at the thought. It had been the while since he had been able to indulge in the base urges of man. Since his wife had escaped along with his favourite plaything, killing his favourite whore to do it, in fact.

“Oh, really?” he couldn’t stop himself from issuing the challenge.

He smirked when the boy leered at him, jerking Ramsay’s knees apart, to seductively shoulder his way between them.

Ramsay breathed heavily through his mouth as the boy serviced him, his wet tongue hot and skilled. Ramsay pressed the top of his crown against the back of his tall chair, as he tilted his head back, moaning loudly in unbridled ecstasy. The boy suckled on the head before taking him deep into his throat, swallowing thickly around him. Ramsay blissfully tangled his fingers into his brown hair, tugging sharply with every swipe of skilled tongue.

When he came down the man’s throat, Ramsay could see why he had chosen to keep him around. Ramsay wasn’t expecting to be immediately yanked forward into a kiss, repulsed at the thought of tasting himself, but despite the strange savageness of it - he’d never kissed anyone with stubble before - he found himself hungry for more. The stranger followed up his enticing kisses with a series of hard nips on Ramsay’s lower lip. But before he could return the action in kind, the man pulled back and away, using one hand to drag Ramsay from his chair.

Leading him by the hand towards the bed, the man gave him a hard look as he said; “You’ve been a grouchy arse all day.”

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed, intrigued by this new side of the demure and dull little twit whose company had been an irritant to him, until this hour.

The young man shoved him unceremoniously onto the featherbed they apparently shared, pulling first Ramsay’s boots and then his breeches off roughly.

“I ought to fuck that sour attitude out of you,” his new lover declared.

Though he tried his best not to show it, Ramsay was certain that a flash of alarm rippled across his face. Whatever this man believed he enjoyed to partake in, Ramsay had never let any man subjugate him that way, and he wasn’t keen on changing that fact.

But the man didn’t push the issue, instead offering him a small smile.

“Or…” he said breathily, carefully unlacing the ties on his own jerkin, before gradually pulling it over his head to toss aside, “Might you be displeased with your favourite tavern wench? And wish him to come service his lord properly?”

Still a mite hesitant, Ramsay nodded. That scenario sounded more acceptable.

The seductor which had somehow replaced the annoying young man crawled on top of him, cupping Ramsay’s face between both his hands for a deep, consuming kiss. Ramsay had never been the focus of such flagrantly loving behaviour before. Myranda had been a sensual creature, but a cruel and callous one, eager to goad him further in his games. Whores were readily available, but they were all poor actors, unable to hide the sneering behind their eyes, their disgust at what they were asked for or thought of him. And the girls he’d played with just screamed and sobbed. No one had ever looked at him with genuine, sexual love.

It was a heady, potent sensation, and as they continued to divest themselves of their clothing, sharing deep kisses all the while, Ramsay decided it was one he might grow to used to.

*

The following morn, Ramsay began the day with the satisfied feeling of a man who had successfully tupped the object of his desire and made them scream in ecstasy. It was very strange to draw pleasure from a subdued atmosphere, Podrick sending him small, secretive smiles across the table while they broke their fast. Ramsay had used the suggestion of the game to ask for his lover's name, under the guise of procuring a tavern wench. Thankfully, it seemed the boy gave his real name, as he hadn't objected to Ramsay's continued use of it.

The twit personsa of his lover was back, but Ramsay could see that unlike with his Reek, it was no act. No second person lived in Podrick's skin, that needed to be stripped away to reveal the truth beneath. Instead, Podrick wore his truth on his sleeve, a favour displayed for all to see. He remembered Roose’s dire warnings to make good with his companion, or else let him go with dignity, and Ramsay cleared his throat awkwardly, having little to no experience with genuine apologies. He can’t recall a single regretful action he took in his life, save for the curious hang-over from his nightmare, where the beasts were tearing him apart. In that moment, he had regretted killing his father and newborn brother, certain that House Bolton was extinct with his death.

Ramsay thought it best to keep it simple, that way it would be most sincere.

“I apologise for my conduct yesterday. I was… rude.” He said slowly, testing out the concept.

Podrick rewarded him a winning smile.

“We all have days of fatigue,” he conceded, “When everything seems tiresome. You are forgiven, love.”

Ramsay took a large bite of his apple, pleased with himself. Podrick fixed him with a steely look then, as though aware Ramsay was congratulating himself on his redemptive conduct.

“In future, try to refrain from belittling those with your best interests at heart.” Podrick suggested, rising from his seat, to shrug a thick outside cloak over his shoulders.

Ramsay frowned at the sight. The snows had fallen thick and heavy well into the night; whilst part of the courtyard was protected by the wooden awnings from above, allowing for archery practice from underneath its protection, the majority of areas out-of-doors were off limits.

“I love you,” said Podrick freely, “But not everyone is predisposed to be lenient toward your sulking.”

“I do not sulk,” Ramsay said reflexively, before the entirety of the sentence sunk in.

Podrick leaned over him, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Ramsay snatched hold of his wrist, preventing him from pulling back. He drew Podrick into a deep kiss, enriching it with all the lust he could feel rolling beneath his skin.

“Where are you going?” he asked, pushing aside the part of him that wondered why he even cared to know.

Podrick wasn’t his responsibility, despite their carnal compatibility. If he wanted to freeze out in the snow, or his duties bid him there, it was no business of Ramsay’s. At least, he knew it shouldn’t be, but somehow, he felt compelled to make it his business to know, regardless.

“To feed the chickens,” Podrick said cheerily, “Should you like to come?”

Ramsay’s knee-jerk reaction was an unequivocal ‘no’, as what would he wish to perform menial tasks for? But Podrick’s cheery countenance seemed to suggest there was a distinct possibility of him actually complying with the invitation, and Ramsay couldn’t stem his curiosity as to why. What satisfaction might his counterpart have gotten, from accompanying his lover to do servants work? Ramsay could not begin to fathom, but he intended to find out.

“Verily,” he agreed, “After I finish this.”

He waved his apple, and achieved another indulgent look for it.

“I ought to check on my bitches, anyway,” Ramsay added, as it was true that he had not considered them until now.

They made their way to the lower levels in quiet companionship, Podrick being so bold as to wrap his hand around Ramsay’s arm, as though he were a highborn girl that Ramsay was escorting to a feast. The feel of his arm tucked around Ramsay’s own was warm, and allowed them to huddle together like baby birds, along the draughty corridors of the Dreadfort. So Ramsay didn’t complain, generously allowing the other man to cuddle up to him.

An older child was buzzing about where the base of a staircase alighted into the corridor they had lately walked down. He was hopping from foot to foot, expending energy, or else trying to remain warm.

“Pod!” cried the boy, before running to Ramsay’s companion, taking a flying leap into his arms.

Ramsay blinked at the boy looking at him from Podrick’s shoulder, a boy staring up at him from Mryanda’s face. The child was too big to be carried- in truth, too old to be as enthused as he was. And as Podrick set him back on his feet, he seemed to remember it. Seeming to take Ramsay’s staring as a cue to re-acquaint himself with proper manners, he nodded stiffly.

“Good morrow, Father,” said the boy, “I did not expect you to join us.”

“Nor I,” Ramsay agreed, raising one eyebrow as he assessed the child portended to be of his blood.

The boy shifted under his scrutiny, but did not shy away from him, nor cower in his presence. That was a good sign, Ramsay felt. It would not do to have a craven child. Unlike his supposed sister, the boy had enough sense to differentiate between grown men receptive to their affection, and those to be more wary of. He noticed that although the boy seemed genuinely pleased to see him, he made no attempt to get to close or smother him with affection.

Slowly, Ramsay reached out to run his fingers through the child’s thick head of hair. Dark curls, like Dom. The boy didn’t cringe from Ramsay’s touch, as he might have, should Roose have attempted the same to him when he was a boy.

“Shall we?” asked Pod brightly, and this time, Ramsay freely offered his elbow to him.

They approached the coop arm in arm, with the bouncy child ahead of them, chattering with excitement. With sure fingers, the boy unlatched the necessary gates to get inside the small enclosure, and used a small bowl to a scoop out an amount of grain from a sack almost as big as him. Pod shook snow from a wicker basket, and set about lifting the wooden lids of the small chicken houses, collecting eggs from the straw nests inside, whilst the chickens pecked around the child feeding them, fluttering and flapping joyfully.

One particularly small white chicken hopped onto the boy’s foot, and remained there.

“A particular favourite of yours?” Ramsay asked, indicating the bird.

“Carmen,” his son said, “Cook promised not to kill her without my say-so.”

Carmen clucked loudly, giving a flap of her wings as though in agreement. Amused, Ramsay leaned on the wooden fence and watched the domestic scene play out, snorting in entertainment, as the chickens almost tripped over one another in their race to the grain.

It had taken Ramsay until this moment to realise the odd feeling in his chest was some form of contentment. Generally, Ramsay had made someone suffer at least once in the hours that had passed, since he had been in this strange dream realm. Briefly, Ramsay considered seeking out the sneering blonde girl to introduce her to his knife. But he suspected from her interactions with his brother that she was Dom’s girl, and that was enough to shake his thoughts away. Ramsay had never been jealous over Dom’s toys, mostly because they shared most things in the first instance. Dom had taught him military strategy with wooden knights and soldiers, how to charm ladies by playing the harp, how to shoot a bow and the best way to kill a man with a variety of other weapons. Ramsay had never purposely spoilt any of Dom's belongings.

“That’s enough now, Merik,” said Podrick, beckoning the boy to leave the enclosure, which he did without complaint after lifting the complacent chicken, Carmen, into his arms for a brief squeeze, before setting her upon the ladder to her wooden hut.

“I’m for the kennels, now,” Ramsay said, feeling it was usual for a man to inform his lover of his movements in such away.

His son, Merik, probably short for Domeric, bounded over toward him, alarmingly bright-eyed.

“May I join you Father?” he asked, “I should like to check on Betsy.”

Seeing no reason to refuse, Ramsay nodded, taking his leave of Podrick with a brief nod as being over-familiar in public was not an action he was prepared to undertake. Merik matched his swift stride toward the kennels, thankfully without the boyish chatter he was clearly allowed to indulge in.

Ramsay scowled, reminded of Roose’s low opinion of his boy. The child was too cheerful, which was clearly Podrick’s influence, but Ramsay couldn’t bring himself to be too angry over it. It was actually rather mystifying, to discover a version of himself that had supposedly raised a child that was not afraid of him. He wondered if Myranda had died in childbirth, leaving him to deal with the infant alone. It was no mystery why he had sought solace from Podrick, were that the case. He and his boys were not built to mother young, but Podrick seemed at ease with the softness required.

To his relief, his bitches were much the same, though Ramsay noticed Red Jeyne was missing. A casualty of time, it seemed. There were a few he was unfamiliar with, noticeably Betsy, a small, scruffy little mongrel that bypassed him in favour of his son, who immediately called out a familiar command in the Old Tongue.

The young bitch immediately sat obediently at his son’s feet, awaiting orders. Ramsay nodded, impressed. He had never considered himself as a father, nor what a child of his loins might be like. Merik was not a copy of himself, but a small distinct person of his own, with unique mannerisms and interests, and yet Ramsay saw himself reflected in the boy’s upright stance, as he commanded his hound. A wet tongue licking at his fingers distracted Ramsay from his musings, and not knowing how long it had been since they were fed, but not wanting them to suffer in the freezing conditions of winter, Ramsay set about acquiring an adequate meal for his girls.

*

The day passed swifter than Ramsay had anticipated, the sun setting so much quicker in winter. Before long, he was snatching a moment alone with his boys, before he was expected to change for dinner.

Damon was unchanged, hulking and gruff as always; the rest picking their teeth with their knives, or stroking their beards with a grim countenance. The only surprise was Tansy, seated comfortably in Damon’s lap in the little storeroom his boys used to drink and play dice in.

“Run along, Tansy,” Ramsay ordered, giving her a firm slap on the rump, when she passed him to exit the room.

She yelped in surprise, turning to share a look with Damon. Ramsay frowned, but shook it away when Damon said nothing. Since when did his whores look to his men for support in anything? Ramsay stored away the unexpected exchange to ruminate over later. Now, he sought answers to other types of questions.

Chiefly, “How on planetos did I land Podrick Payne for a follower?”

Several pairs of eyes burned into him from across the gloomy room.

“M’lord?” Sour Alyn was the first to speak.

Ramsay stepped into the cosy room and shut the door behind himself, trapping them all in the little storeroom. He strode to the table and relieved Skinner of his flagon of ale, to take a decent swig of it.

“I mean it,” Ramsay pressed, wiping his mouth of frothy residue, “Why does he put up with… this?”

Ramsay waved his dominant hand to indicate the Dreadfort, the North and himself. But his boys only blinked in stupefaction, dumb faces offering him no answers.

“The fucking?” Alyn eventually offered, before shrinking back from Ramsay’s sharp look.

After careful consideration, Ramsay allowed himself a snort of self-satisfied laughter.

“The fucking is impressive.” Then he scowled, considering; “But I’m not the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who knows how to fuck.”

A bristle of movement caught his eye and he looked about the dimly-lit room to find several bemused men.

“What?” he demanded, “Someone ought to spit out something, because you’re starting to get on my nerves.”

Sufficiently conditioned to respond to such threats fasf, Skinner replied: “Tis nothing. Only, you’ve not called it that - none of us has, for a long time.”

“Called what, what?” Ramsay fumed, irritated at the change of subject.

“The Seven Kingdoms,” Damon finally clarified. “Not since Robb Stark became King in the North have you called Westeros such.”

Dizzy from the bizarreness of this world, Ramsay took a small step back. Was it possible that the Starks were still living, having succeeded in taking the North from the Seven Kingdoms, here? It would explain why they were all still living in the Dreadfort.

Ramsay pinched his nose, breathing deeply to retain some semblance of calm.

“Language aside, someone explain to me why Podrick and I- how... What the fuck is going on here?”

Fortunately, his eyes were shut to the alarmed looks that passed between his favoured hunting companions. By the time Ramsay’s icy blue eyes were scrutinising them again, they had arranged their faces to neutrality.

“Podrick is feal, Ramsay,” said Damon firmly, “Whatever you suspect- it’ll not be bad. You have Podrick’s loyalty, always.”

Even more confused as to why Damon should be so adamant about another man’s faithfulness, Ramsay merely frowned. He considered the gentle, teasing man who doted on him and his son both, the way he’d responded to Ramsay’s touch the night before, how quick Podrick had been to forgive Ramsay’s supposed transgression.

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed, “I know that for myself.”

It wasn’t the answer he was searching for, but mayhaps it was the one he needed, after all.

*

Ramsay spent a month at the Dreadfort, learning about the life he might have had, if Dom had lived. A great many things were altered here; not least that the Kingdom of the North remained entirely independent, apparently having survived the Second Long Night. Ramsay had stumbled across one of Maester Wolkan’s lessons to his son and his nieces, Dom’s well-bred daughters. The children had obediently answered questions on the Others, who were apparently vulnerable to dragon glass and Valyrian steel. Horrified, Ramsay had settled into the back of the room to listen in rapt, disturbed attention.

After that, he was even more grateful to have woken in this world at the time that he had, but the sheer terror of it had him demanding books from Maester Wolkan regarding the recent war with the Others. Ramsay had never been studious - Father hadn’t thought a bastard deserved more than basic letters and numbers, but Dom had gone over every lesson he received with Ramsay, forcing him to pay attention and write assignments until his head spun. But in truth he had missed it, when Dom had been sent to the Vale, and he drew on those lessons now.

When not researching, Ramsay was thrilled to spend long hours merely talking with his brother, doing his best to mitigate the gaps in his memory of this world, and quite unable to resist drawing his brother into embraces. Dom laughed at him, teasing him for being needy, but Ramsay endured the ribbing in good grace, unable to explain why their time together was so treasured.

Ramsay had forgotten how to play the harp. In clumsy mortification, his fingers bled as he fumbled his way back into some semblance of skill. He’d forgotten how sweet the sound of the melodies were, when played correctly. He’d forgotten a great many things, it seemed.

He grew complacent of his new way of life. Podrick wasn’t a servant, but he cherished Ramsay, with a hundred small considerations that might not be unusual to man with an obedient wife, but were a revelation to a man who had been treated with scorn most of his life. Ramsay grew used to having a son, a child that looked to him for cues on how to behave before Lord Bolton. Less appealing was his goodsister Wylla, whom he shared a mutual hatred for, despite how sincerely she seemed to love his brother. His new mother was far more tolerable, though Ramsay’s brows had flown sky-high when he realised she was Ironborn. Reek’s aunt, no less.

More shocking still, was learning that Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, was no bastard at all, but the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and therefore the heir to the Iron Throne. Ramsay had laughed himself sick, when he learnt that pious fucking Eddard Stark had been hiding a dragon beneath Robert Baratheon’s nose all this time. Oh, if only Ramsay had known! What Father would have rewarded him with, for that information...

But as time went on, Ramsay thought less on the wretched creatures he had left behind him. When he learnt that Theon Greyjoy was the King of the Iron Islands here, and married to his own former wife, it was with barely a frisson of interest. Later, that seemed amusing indeed. But how little Ramsay’s unwilling playthings mattered in the face of a love that was wholly his own, and won without violence.

It should not have been the revelation it was, when he came to understand he had won Pod’s affection without force, incarceration, or threat of any kind. Pod didn’t bat an eyelid to find him in the dungeons, bloody from working over a thief. Podrick Payne - or Redbolt, as they were called here, was capable of loving every aspect of Ramsay, without cause for the suppression of any side of him. The thought was humbling. Ramsay ended most nights in the arms of a man that loved him, and was not afraid to show it. It was rather lovely.

One night, Ramsay rolled off his lover after their latest bout of mating, panting breathlessly, his chest heaving with sweat, Podrick humming with satisfaction beside him.

“That was excellent,” Ramsay said, still in awe.

Podrick made an indistinct noise of agreement, obviously moments from sleep.

“I love you,” Ramsay whispered, for the first time, not yet sure that he wanted Pod to know it.

But when he rolled over to press upon Podrick's mouth a hard kiss, he found willing lips waiting, and that was enough.

*

Ramsay woke with a soft body pillowed atop his. He nuzzled into the tangled hair brushing his face, then froze as a familiar floral scent filled his nose.

“Good morrow, my lord,” Myranda giggled, slithering over him, rolling to face him and take his erection in her silky palm. Ramsay felt a swift and ludicrous urge to hit her, and push her away. Momentarily frightened for his sanity, instead he relaxed and let her worship him, as a lord should be.

Afterward, she dressed herself, throwing coy looks at him the entire time.

“Shall I fetch Violet and meet you downstairs m’lord?” She purred, not noticing Ramsay’s stricken look.

Not knowing nor caring to what she was referring, Ramsay nodded dumbly, then barked at her to hurry up. In the silence of her wake, he lay back on his featherbed, staring at the familiar dark stone ceiling of his boyhood room in the Dreadfort, dim and uninviting as always. The cosy armchairs beside the fireplace were gone. The fruit bowl was gone.

Merik and Dom and  _Pod_ were all gone.

“FUCK!” Ramsay screamed, utterly alone.

*

Theon Greyjoy made a pitiful sight, writhing on the floor, held down by Ramsay’s men. Ramsay had forgotten the sight of him, and where before he remembered being proud, of reducing a man to an inhuman wretch, now he felt mere disgust. Violet and Myranda were tittering beside him, waiting for him to make a speech and inflict pain. The gelding knife in his hand had a curious weight. It was an unwieldy, ugly thing.

Theon was screaming as he lashed out, desperate to escape.

 _Dom wouldn’t have done this,_ Ramsay thought, with sudden and clear clarity.  _Pod didn’t mind me interrogating prisoners, but Theon didn’t even do most of what he was accused of._

Swallowing down his confusion, Ramsay sighed heavily, shoving the knife into his belt.

“Get him back on the cross,” he snapped, before stalking out of the room.

From high on the battlements, he could see for miles. The North lay stretched out ahead of him, bleak and beautiful.

“All this can be mine,” he whispered, “It will be, if I let it be.”

*

“I see you played your games with him,” Father sneered, unimpressed, at the sight of Theon Greyjoy, hunched and terrified, tatty, but regularly scrubbed clean. Ramsay found there was little interest in reliving past glories. There would never be another creature quite like his Reek, so why bother with some half-arsed replacement?

“He’s still Balon’s heir,” Ramsay shrugged, “The Ironborn will surely trade for him. Or offer us something we want in return for keeping him alive… and intact.”

Father fixed him with a steely eye.

“Perhaps there is some hope for you after all,” Father conceded.

*

Violet gave birth to a daughter, with icy blue eyes and mousy brown hair. Ramsay took hold of her with ginger hands, careful to hold her to his chest and not drop her. She was heavier than expected.

“My lord-” Violet whimpered, clearly frightened that Ramsay intended to harm the babe.

It had been unprecedented that Ramsay had let a pregnant whore live, and even when she was as fat as a cow, she’d been afraid he would change his mind.

“We’ll call her Ingrid,” Ramsay declared, “A strong, ancient name. Ingrid Snow.”

 _For my bonny sister,_ he thought.  _I’ll never have another like her, but mayhaps I’ll have another brother some day._

*

“You want us to go… to Skagos?” Damon repeated slowly.

“Tell no one,” Ramsay reminded him, “And I swear, when you return, I’ll have you wed to Tansy. Your child need not be a bastard. But Damon… tell anyone of this, including my Father, and I’ll flay her until the babe spills out at my feet.”

Swallowing thickly, Damon nodded.

*

Sansa Stark shivered in his arms, but Ramsay smiled at her gently, and led her to their new bedchamber.

Resisting the urge to fuck his wife was worse than he thought it’d be. It took all of Ramsay’s strength to picture Pod’s smiling face. The gentle way he caressed Ramsay’s stubbled chin, the hot, heated kisses they shared as Pod withstood the most forceful, punishing pace of fucking Ramsay could maintain.

 _He saw the darkness in me, and loved me regardless,_  Ramsay reminded himself.  _Pod didn’t carry the same kind of sickness, attracting like to like, as with Myranda and I. He was his own creature, and unashamed to be so._

Ramsay had long since flaunted his desires, never one to feel shame or the need to reflect on the actions that led him to the path he was currently walking. He simply continued to march onward to his current goal, no matter what form it took. 

He had to endure days of Father chiding him to be gentle with Sansa Stark, the woman he must wed and bed and get a son on, if they were to ever secure their hold on the North.

 _And Father’s hold over me,_ he now realised sourly.

With a grandson of Stark blood, Father would have no use for Ramsay himself. He could be easily disposed of in a hunting accident, or lose his footing on the ramparts.  _Poisoned by our enemies,_  Ramsay thought with a snort. But no, that would not be his fate. Not ever again. If he wasn’t capable of having her without dying for it, he couldn’t have her at all. The Knights of the Vale were sure to come to Sansa's aid, no matter what power the Lannisters claimed he held. Ramsay knew that brother-fucking whore of a Southron Queen wouldn’t send an army to defend him from the Northmen loyal to the Starks. They’d sooner the North tear itself to shreds, perhaps wiping them out entirely, than sacrifice more men to defend the far-flung territory. And how could they hope to defeat the Others then?

 _Jon Snow better turn up soon,_ he thought,  _I grow weary of these games._

_*_

When Walda announced her pregnancy, Ramsay feigned surprise, and congratulated his Father with a hug. No chainmail beneath his leathers, but just as before, Ramsay was frightened to act. Still, he forced himself to remember his father would only stand in his way. Roose Bolton would never realise how vital it was to act to secure the North from the Others. And how would Ramsay ever gain the hidden dragon’s trust, if Robb Stark’s killer lived? Jon was unlikely to look upon him favourably as it was.

 _I’m sorry Father,_ Ramsay thought, as he plunged the knife into his heart,  _I owe you much._

Walda and Sansa screamed, a shrill, eerie wailing that echoed off the bare walls, filling the room with their terror. A guardsman started forward, but was beaten back by only a look from Ramsay. Theon was gaping, shivering in shock.

“Fetch Maester Wolkan, Theon.” Ramsay ordered, “My father is dead; poisoned by our enemies.”

Then he turned to his loyal servant. “Damon- bring him to me.”

The room was horribly quiet as they waited for Theon and the old man to return. The Maester gaped at the bloody sight of Roose Bolton’s corpse laid out on the cobblestones. Sansa whimpered, in confusion mingled with fear. Ramsay smiled at her encouragingly, but offered no other explanations. They were interrupted by Damon’s return. He was accompanied by a young man, blinking in the light, not used to it after having spent a long time hiding in the crypts.

“Send word to all the Northern Houses: Roose Bolton is dead. Poisoned by our enemies." Ramsay demanded to Wolkan, "Tell them: House Bolton knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Rickon Stark lives, and we will gladly grant him his rightful seat. Signed, Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.”

Maester Wolkan was still staring at them all with mute horror, whilst Walda cried quietly on the floor, rocking back and forth, having fallen to her knees.

“Hello again, King Rickon,” said Ramsay, “Come greet my wife: your elder sister, Sansa.”

Ramsay was quite unprepared for Sansa to throw her arms about his neck, mumbling out her thanks in a hysterical mantra. He wondered if she would be quite so thrilled with him, when she learnt the reason he hadn’t lain with her was so that he could offer her hand to her supposed brother, Jon Targaryen. Binding the Northern Kingdom to the Iron Throne, but still keeping the realms separate. Only time would tell, he supposed.

 _Hold on Pod,_ he thought,  _stay alive, wherever you are. Just a little longer. I’ll find you, I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Your stare swallows me and I can hardly breathe_  
>  _I feel it's dangerous, could be deadly_  
>  _Somehow I'm willing to do the things you want_  
>  _Take me in your arms: spoon-feed my heart_  
>  _And drip by drip_  
>  _I'll take it all, sip by sip_  
>  _I guess that it's make or break_  
>  _Boy here and now_  
>  _We're caught in a moment_  
>  _And I won't let it go_  
>  _I am falling deeper, losing my control_  
>  _Involved in a feeling, like the blink of a eye_  
>  _And the silence it belongs to you and I_  
>   
>  -Caught in a Moment, the Sugababes


	103. Podrick Payne

If they hadn’t been afraid for their lives every time they heard voices on the wind, the North would have been a beautiful place. Podrick was used to the fertile beauty of the rich forest land in the Westerlands, and the well tilled greenery of the lands about the Trident. But the North had a wild, unique charm.

They had spent so long in the Riverlands, on the heels of Arya Stark, to fulfill his lady’s promise to Lady Catelyn. But Arya had run from them. And though his lady had been near despair, they had soon stumbled across Lady Sansa, which had reinvigorated her again.

Despite Lady Sansa’s dismissal, Brienne had been determined to dog her steps, and remain within easy distance of making contact with her again. They could not breach Winterfell’s walls, but they could remain close to the Winter Town, picking up gossip from the locals. No one had anything kind to say of Ramsay Bolton, Lady Sansa’s new lord husband.

They heard whispers of flaying, murders of the most brutal kind, and kinslaying. Some swore he had murdered his elder brother to become Roose Bolton’s only heir. Others scoffed, and claimed the two sons of Lord Bolton were unnaturally obsessed with one another, such as Targaryens or now the Lannisters, might be with their siblings. Brienne listened to all the filthy stories with a mulish look on her face, especially whenever anyone disparaged Ser Jaime. But she never said a word to reveal herself. Podrick was proud of her. It was not easy to learn that you could not defend the honour of those you cared about, for each and every insult. Yet sometimes it was simply too dangerous to take such risks.

One eve, as they entered a dimly lit tavern they had visited before, Pod and Brienne found a hubbub of chatter. Men were talking over one another, and bumping into each other in their excitement.

“What’s all this about, then?” Brienne asked, her voice dropped low, so that she might pass for a man.

The drunkard swaying afore her seemed fooled, at the least.

“Winterfell’s flying Stark banners again,” the man proclaimed with a hiccup, sloshing ale over himself as he staggered, “Old Gurn saw’t, but they called him a liar, so we did- and off’t castle we goes, and we saw’t true, the grey wolf tis back, and they say little Rickon lives!”

Brienne exchanged a look of alarm with Podrick, clearly feeling the same shock he did. They took a seat at a crowded bench, and listened to the rumours fly all about them. The one consistent fact seemed to be that Roose Bolton was dead, and his son had declared for House Stark.

Her lips pressed closed in grim determination, and without saying a word, Brienne told him what she desired.

*

Winterfell was easily the largest castle Podrick had ever seen. With its smooth exterior walls stretching for miles in either direction, the thick grey brickwork seemed to blot out the sun, the nearer they gathered to it. Until they were subsumed by shadow. Despite the white banner tipped with green fluttering in the breeze, proudly carrying the snarling direwolf of House Stark, Podrick shivered.

Lady Bolton received them in the great hall. A hulking man, clad in the formidable leathers of House Bolton, led the way. The flayed man carved into his chest piece made Pod cringe. He swallowed deeply before they entered the room, already intimidated.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth, and Podrick of House Payne, m’lord,” announced their guide gruffly.

Lady Sansa Bolton was seated beside a man perhaps only a little elder to her in age, both of them dressed in rich, dark clothes, though Lady Sansa’s dress wasn’t so fine as when they had encountered her with Lord Baelish. Brienne bowed stiffly, and Podrick followed her cue. When he arose, he was unnerved to find the Lord watching him intently, with pale blue eyes.

“Thank you, Damon,” said the man who must surely be Lord Bolton, with a lazy flick of his hand.

Lady Sansa was looking between them both with some interest, but Lord Bolton’s eyes never wavered from Pod himself. Desperately hoping the fear would not show on his face, Pod directed his gaze to the wooden long table they were seated at, alone.

“Damon tells me you wish for an audience with my wife?” Lord Bolton said, “We are always glad to welcome new friends to Winterfell, are we not, Sansa?”

Sansa Stark beamed at him, seemingly more at ease in her childhood home than in the company of Lord Baelish. That was certainly a good sign, and one that would surely bring comfort to Brienne.

“Yes indeed, husband,” agreed Lady Sansa.

To Brienne, she offered a more subdued smile.

“I am afraid I was rather dismissive of your offer of assistance, the last time we met, Lady Brienne. Can you forgive a headstrong girl for being wilful?”

Brienne stiffened, as she always did when she was referred to as a Lady.

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” she said softly.

“In that case, Lady Brienne, let me offer you and your companion bread and salt, and rooms here in Winterfell-” Lady Sansa began, but her words dried up when Brienne fell to her knees, and unsheathed Oathkeeper, to lay the sword at her feet.

“That will not be necessary, my lady,” Brienne said insistently, “For I offer again to pledge myself to your service, and the service of House Stark, as I once swore myself to your lady mother.”

Lady Sansa raised one delicate eyebrow, turning to her husband. She rested one small, pale hand on his arm and leaned in close to whisper into his ear. Lord Bolton listened stoically, before granting Sansa a solitary, sharp nod. Abruptly he stood, a silky smooth smile on breaking across his icy features.

“Lady Sansa is most graciously inclined to grant your request. But you need not swear yourself to my wife personally; she is well protected here at Winterfell, by our men. However, she will accept your oath to serve House Stark.”

Lady Sansa stood also, and rounded the table to stand directly before Brienne.

“On behalf of my brother, King Rickon Stark,” Sansa clarified with a demure smile.

Though he could not see her face, Podrick saw Brienne’s yellow head dip in a nod.

“I will shield your backs and keep your counsel, and give my life for House Stark, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” Brienne vowed solemnly, as serious about her honour as ever she had been.

“On behalf of the House of my father, and my brother Rickon, the King in the North,” Lady Sansa said, her smile dropped, and her tone serious; “I vow that you shall always have a place at our hearth, and meat and mead at our table. We pledge to ask no service of you, that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

For a long minute, the air in the room was still, as if the gods had taken a moment to observe and honour the vow.

Then it was broken by Lord Bolton clapping his hands together once, approaching them swiftly.

“Excellent!” he declared, “We shall have somewhat of a feast tonight, in celebration. We will find rooms for you in the castle, but I apologise if the food tonight is not as decadent as you might expect. Winter is almost upon us, after all, and the harvest is not as bountiful as it might have been, had half our men not ridden to war.”

Brienne nodded, rising to her feet to re-sheath Oathkeeper into her belt. Pod remained respectfully quiet, as Lord Bolton grew nearer, until he was only a pace or two afore him.

“There is one request I must make of you, Lady Brienne,” Lord Bolton said, his charming smile doing nothing to set Brienne at ease, Pod knew.

His lady was far too wary of men than that. She pressed her shoulders back, displaying her full formidable height, but Ramsay Bolton did not seem in the slightest bit intimidated.

“My guards informed me that young Podrick here was introduced as your squire,” Lord Bolton said, framing the words as a question.

“Yes, my lord,” said Brienne stiffly.

“Well, now, that just won’t do.” Lord Bolton shook his head in false sympathy, whilst Podrick’s heart leapt in his chest, warning him of some danger. “You are not a knight, and therefore no adequate teacher for a squire.”

Lord Bolton held up a hand in advance of Brienne’s protest.

“I do not doubt your prowess on the battlefield, my lady, and I hope to see you best many men in the yard. I am sure you are quite capable of trouncing them all.”

From the corner of his eye, Podrick saw Brienne blink uncertainly, caught off-guard by an immediate respect for her skill, despite having not showcased it. Men rarely did anything but laugh at Brienne’s armour and knightly stance, but Lord Bolton seemed entirely sincere.

“Be that as it may…” Lord Ramsay continued, “Some semblance of order must be maintained. Podrick is perfectly welcome to train with you in this castle. But you shall have female attendants, as is proper, and Podrick will squire for another, once he has taken bread and salt.”

Lady Sansa gave Podrick a kindly look. “There are not so many knights in the North, but we do breed brave and fierce warriors here.”

“I…” Brienne looked to Pod, worry in every crease of her frown.

She had done so much for him, and here they were, finally in a position where she she could fulfil her oath of honour. She had not been the one to accompany Lady Sansa to her home, and Lady Arya was still lost, but another of Lady Catelyn’s children had been restored to Winterfell, and she was in a position to protect them both, just as their mother would have wanted.

“We accept your terms, my lord,” Podrick said, in a loud and firm voice, willing to work for a less worthy knight, if it meant that Brienne could finally be at peace with her oath.

Brienne flashed him a grateful look, whilst Lady Sansa continued to beam at him encouragingly. She stepped daintily to her husband’s side, entwining her fingers within her lord’s.

Podrick attempted a smile, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach, which rebelled against the oddly intense stare Lord Ramsay was continuing to bore into him.

*

There were two gigantic direwolves lolling by the top table at the feast, one pure black, the other snowy white. King Rickon was the young boy seated directly behind the beasts, in the place of honour, yet had savage manners, and as feral a method of eating as the wolves. Lady Sansa cooed over him, utterly unbothered by his uncouth behaviour. Brienne eyed Rickon with some distaste. But Podrick knew her ire was directed more at the people that had ensured this little boy had been left to fend for himself. Alone in the wilds of the North, without the protection of his family. War did terrible things to people, and it was always the weakest that suffered most.

Podrick enjoyed the roast mutton stew greatly. Despite Lord Bolton’s warning that the food would not be impressive, Pod hadn’t eaten so well in months, practically moaning at the taste of the orange and redberry sweetmeats, his favourite flavour of the treat.

His rooms hadn’t been far from Brienne’s chambers, large for a squire, with a clean fireplace and featherbed full of furs. He was presented with brown leathers and a small selection of tunics and woollen underclothes. Servants brought him a wooden tub and scalding hot water to fill it with, as well as a spicy soap to scrub himself with. It was the most luxury Pod had enjoyed since they left the decadence of King’s Landing, and he moaned in shock at how good it felt to heat his weary muscles and work orange oil into his calves. It felt like he'd been walking for years, and this was the first time he could relax. He ended up indulging far longer than he meant to in the hot water.

The clothes Pod had been offered seemed new, the stitches neat and unfrayed. The warmth of the woollen undershirt was incredible. His filthy red leathers seemed grimy and tattered in comparison to the boiled brown leather he was now clad in, in the fashion all Northmen wore. Everything fit him snugly. Almost suspiciously well, as though the castle seamstress had measured him from afar, in anticipation of their arrival. Shaking off such silly notions, Podrick tucked an apple into his pocket, from the brimming bowl of fruit someone had kindly thought to place in his new chambers. After months of sharing straw pallets or hard ground with Brienne, he could hardly believe he had a featherbed all of his own.

The Northmen he encountered on the way to dinner were gruff and grizzled, but Podrick didn’t smell fear on them, the way that he could so often sense it in the Red Keep. Tensions had always been high in that King’s court, and you were never sure who to trust. The men of the North seemed a little more subdued, less inclined to make extravagant proclamations, and their food, dress, eating implements and decoration were far less extravagant. But the castle felt welcoming in a way that the Red Keep never had.

Podrick felt eyes on him, the Southron in their midst, but few were bold enough to ogle him openly. He was startled to look upon the top table - the huge wolves were fascinating, and Podrick could barely keep his gaze from them - to find icy blue eyes staring at him intently. He could not help the shiver that crawled down his spine, at once more being the focus of Lord Bolton’s attention. For what possible reason could the lord be so interested in him? Did he suspect he and Brienne were Lannister spies? No doubt that was the real reason they had been separated, so they could not confer in secret. Unsettled, Pod returned his gaze to his food.

*

Brienne quickly rose in estimation in the eyes of the Northern court. How could she not, when she was so skilled in the yard and so sincere, when she spoke of honour and duty. Pod was not surprised that she was invited to stand guard at important meetings. He was more taken back that he was asked to accompany her, but did as he was bid.

He was therefore present at a small meeting of lords, where Lord and Lady Bolton announced their intention to separate.

“Lady Sansa and I were joined in marriage for a political alliance between my father and the South,” Lord Ramsay declared to the stunned Northern lords. “That alliance no longer stands, and so I intend to release her from her vows, so that she might make an alliance that greater benefits House Stark.”

“But my lord… now is not the time to unsettle the North,” said an old lord sat directly in front of where Podrick stood, whose name he had not yet learnt. He had a grey beard, and a gloved fist stitched on his leathers.

“What greater alliance than between the two eldest, most powerful Northern Houses?” chipped in a man Podrick knew was Ser Davos, Stannis Baratheon’s onion knight.

Podrick had also been present when Ser Davos begged King Rickon for permission to execute Lady Melisandre for the death of Lady Shireen Baratheon. But the little King would not have it, because Melisandre had resurrected his brother and ‘Shaggy liked her’. But he did say if she did ‘anything else bad’, Ser Davos could put her head on a spike.

“Lady Sansa is the only other child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, that we can be certain still lives,” said Lord Ramsay calmly, “Her place is here, watching over her brother until he reaches maturity. My place is in the Dreadfort, with my stepmother and infant brother.”

“But my lord, a marriage before the old gods…” the same old lord said, “Forgive me, Lady Sansa, but you are not a maid.”

“Oh, but she is.” Lord Bolton grinned broadly, taking hold of his wife’s hand to press a chivalrous kiss to it. “I never intended for my father’s plot to come to fruition, my lords, so took the necessary steps to ensure it did not.”

“My lord husband has been most kind,” Lady Sansa added, with a winsome smile, “We have become the closest of friends, and I hope we shall remain so, but we are no more than that.”

“Lady Sansa was born for greater than a legitimized bastard, your grace. In exchange for one favour, I will relinquish my claim on her,” concluded Lord Ramsay, in the faces of the speechless Northern lords. He was directing his words to the young King, but Podrick saw his eyes flick over to Jon Snow, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“We ask that you dissolve our marriage honourably, so that I might return to the Dreadfort, and oversee the preparations being made there to help us withstand the threat from beyond the Wall.”

“So that Sansa can marry Jon and live in Winterfell with me and Shaggy and Ghost forever?” asked King Rickon.

Jon Snow flushed in mortification at the suggestion he might marry his sister, but Lady Sansa’s sweet smile never dropped.

“Something akin to that, your grace,” she murmured.

“Yes!” called out the King in the North, “Sansa is not married now. Lord Bolton can go home to his castle!”

“Thank you, your grace,” Lord Ramsay chuckled, before Lady Sansa surprised them all by drawing him down into a deep, loving kiss.

“Still a maid, my arse,” grumbled the old lord, but Podrick doubted anyone else heard it over the hesitant, confused clapping which broke out.

“There is one more thing I have to ask of you, your grace- the favour I spoke of.” Lord Bolton reminded them.

The room became solemn again, in anticipation of his request.

“I have a daughter, your grace. A babe named Ingrid Snow,” Lord Ramsay revealed, causing a bristle of mutters to break out among the seated men.

“I would ask that you legitimise her, so that I might raise her to be a lady, and one day find a good match for her.”

King Rickon blinked, clearly unsure, and turned to his own baseborn brother. Jon Snow leaned forward to whisper something quiet into his ear.

“I will sign the- the-”

“Naturalisation decree,” Jon supplied helpfully.

The young King nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, that. I’ll sign it!”

“Wonderful,” sighed Ramsay Bolton, like a man who no longer had a care in the world.

*

Podrick was startled to learn he was included in the party of men expected to leave Winterfell for the Dreadfort. Brienne came to bid her goodbyes, her eyes glassy at their parting. Podrick thanked her for being the honourable knight he could one day aspire to be, and she blushed darkly and mumbled her reply, before shaking his hand roughly.

Lord Bolton came to his chambers also, to personally welcome him to the household.

“You are to squire for me alone, now,” his new liege lord declared, with a wide grin.

He stepped unusually close to impart this information, icy eyes burning into Podrick’s own, so strongly that he was unable to look away. A gentle hand touched Pod’s chin, his lord running a single finger along his jaw, to softly brush down his throat until it rested in the hollow of his neck. Podrick swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest.

“You are exactly as I remember,” Lord Ramsay purred, “Quite perfect.”

Perplexed, Pod found his mouth was dry, unable to form a single word. Ramsay Bolton licked his own lips, a familiar smirk growing on them, as he stepped even closer, so close that Podrick could count the lashes on his eyelids, or the freckles upon his nose.

“I aim to impress you, my dear,” Ramsay revealed, leaning in even closer, to whisper the words directly into his ear.

Podrick whimpered when the mysterious words were punctuated with a sharp nip to his earlobe.

Then he was gone, stepping back out smoothly in a swirl of dark fabric as his cloak rippled. And Podrick was left to stumble, flicking out one hand to clutch the wall for support, dizzy as he heaved in deep breaths. He was startled to find his blood up, feeling himself harden in his breeches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jsyk, Ramsay named his baby brother Domeric, and married him to his daughter Ingrid when they came of age, which was his plan all along. Legitimizing her gave him an excuse to raise her as a lady without tipping off his bannermen that he didn't intend to marry again/let his brother marry any of their daughters.
> 
> Also, Theon moved to Braavos, joined an acting troupe and lived a long and happy life.

**Author's Note:**

> Still want more?
> 
> The collected 'the lone traveller' Tertiary Universe fics can be [found here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1208694).


End file.
